


carry me home

by babybrotherdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Codependent Winchesters, Death Row, Gen, Homophobic Language, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, POV Outsider, Prison, Slurs, Trauma, Violence, shifting pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-20 14:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11922510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: It starts with a shapeshifter in St. Louis, and it ends with a gurney in Huntsville.(the law finally catches up with the Winchesters down south, and things go a little bit sideways.)





	1. the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Death row AU: RISE
> 
> There is some beautiful art done of this AU by [soluscheese](soluscheese.tumblr.com), but it's kind of spoiler-y so I'm going to link them in the next part. 
> 
> Title is from Steve Earl's "Ellis Unit One." If you ever want to cry about death row things, then I highly recommend you give it a listen.
> 
> ALSO: a HUGE thanks to [bythehighwayside](bythehighwayside.tumblr.com) for betaing the first part of this for me (even though it took me 57 years to actually go through and fix things). 
> 
> (The major character death isn't so much a spoiler as it is the entire premise of this fic. Tread with caution. I'll add more tags and/or warnings as they become relevant in later installments. The rating will probably shift to an E soon enough.
> 
> I don't think it should need to be said, but I don't condone the use of the homophobic language that's in some parts of this chapter.)

They fucked up, this time. They fucked up _real_ bad.

It’s not that running from the law is anything new for the Winchesters. They’ve been chased by every type of law enforcement there is since before little Sammy even knew how to read; hunting is far from a socially-acceptable profession, in that most everything it entails is illegal across the majority of the good ol’ United States of America. Petty theft, credit card fraud, grave desecration; they’ve checked pretty much every box there is to label them outlaws. Not the big ones, though- they don’t hurt people, for the most part. Not bad enough to matter.

At least, not until that time that they do. That time that _Dean_ \- or rather, a monster wearing Dean’s skin- finally does.

St. Louis is nothing but a blip in the rearview mirror these days, damn near forgotten in its entirety (except for the nightmares, sometimes; Dean isn’t going to forget having to shoot himself anytime soon and Sam can’t dig his brother’s dead body out of the deepest recesses of his mind), and Milwaukee is a joke. Dean laughs about it being a badge of honour; their first real brush with the FBI, and Sam just rolls his eyes and tells him to keep quiet about it for both their sakes.

Things change when they make a mistake.

Shouldn’t mean a damn thing, in a long line of mostly mistakes, but it’s a mistake made at the wrong place and the wrong time, and they get recognized. It should be an easy case and a quick hunt, but things go sideways faster than they can be straightened out.

They get sloppy.

They get _caught._

* * *

Diana can’t quite believe it when she’s told that Dean Winchester’s just been apprehended in a grungy old gas station on the edge of town. She’s heard the stories, of course; being in homicide makes it hard to avoid bits and pieces of the real serious cases, even hundreds of miles away, and Missouri is hardly that. The violent murders, the near-perfect crime scenes, and the shoot-out that’d sealed his fate. Even now, months later, no one’s been able to pin down a motive for some kid who wasn’t from town to begin with. And later, Milwaukee- nothing makes the news like a dead man perpetrating a hostage situation. Dean’s in the wind, now, just another escaped criminal in a country founded on them. A bit of trivia and half-remembered details, sparked by her momentary interest in another strange criminal.

“Detective Ballard, you ain’t gonna believe this one.”

Except then the call comes through, and it’s all yanked rather abruptly into the here-and-now.

There’s a fine line between hearing stories and seeing the real thing, and she’s all tangled up in a mess of adrenaline and apprehension as she fumbles to get herself ready to join the team. She’s reviewing the case in her head as she goes, counting off charges and thinking about MOs and wondering how long it’ll be until the feds swoop in to take the case.

By the time she makes it to the scene, though, her team’s got Dean surrendered and cuffed, half of them busy scrambling for an explanation to how they’ve caught themselves a serial killer strolling around Odessa in the middle of the night. Diana’s already got other priorities on her mind once she’s sure that he’s secure, asking to see everything they’ve taken out of his pockets- lo and behold, among the weapons and lock picks and box-cutters he’s got on his person are two sets of keys. One of them fits the Chevy Impala parked outside, and the other’s got a keychain that links it to a run-down little motel off the I-20. It’s enough for her to hit the road again, calling for backup and preparing herself for the confrontation.

Nobody’s started to look for an accomplice yet, because not everybody on her team knows that Dean Winchester has a little brother.

* * *

Victor has long since learned that his work tends to be everything but rewarding. Exhausting, and frustrating, and endless- but not rewarding. Years of chasing shadows, and maybe he’ll get to save a couple lives, if he’s lucky, and then fill out a year’s worth of paperwork to mark the occasion. Still, he continues- what little field work he’s allotted between everything else the bureau drops on him is enough to get his blood pumping with the fleeting promise of victory, and he’ll take anything he can get these days.

Maybe he’s a little too eager to take on the Winchesters when their case lands on his desk, but no one’s faulted him for it so far. A murderer turned dead man turned bank robber is too much for him to resist, and it isn’t long after he speaks to Dean on the phone that he’s become entirely devoted to tracking the both of them down and bringing them in for good.

The last thing he expects is for someone else to beat him to the chase.

“Reidy,” he greets without looking up when his partner steps into his office. “Any luck finding those phone records we were looking for?”

“You’re going to want to see this, Vic.”

That’s enough to have Victor pausing, because if Calvin is anything, he’s devoted to the job. Maybe not devoted in the way Victor is, to the point of obsession, but he’s a hell of a good partner and knows what he’s doing when it comes to these cases. If there’s something important enough to distract him-

“Someone got ‘em. Down in Texas.” Calvin breathes out something that’s almost a chuckle, full of amazement and disbelief as Victor’s jaw drops. “Yeah, they’re as surprised as we are. Just some local police station. Probably don’t know what to do with themselves.”

And then Victor’s already standing, paperwork be damned, because he can already feel the adrenaline creeping into his bloodstream with the thought of finally _finishing_ this. Shoves down the hint of disappointment that he wasn’t the one on the ground to slap the cuffs on their wrists and see the defiance fade from their eyes, but-

Well. He takes what he gets.

“Let’s go give ‘em a hand.”

* * *

Bobby’s had one hell of a night.

“There’s got to be somethin’ you can do.” He tries his best not to growl into the phone as his grip on it tightens dangerously. It creaks in his hand and he tries to relax. “We can’t just leave ‘em in there.”

“You know I don’t have any pull in Texas.” He doesn’t have a whole lot of cop friends, and the touch of irritation mixed in with the apology in Mike's voice tells him he won’t have any left at all if he keeps this up. It’s damn hard, though, with the tightness in his chest and the way his heart hammers against his ribcage. “I’m sorry, Bobby, but there’s nothing I can do, unless you need help finding them a good lawyer.”

With the charges stacked against Dean- and Sam, too, simply by association- Bobby knows for damn well sure that twenty of the best lawyers in the world wouldn’t get them anywhere. Not unless they could convince the judge that a shapeshifter was the one doing all the killing in the first place. “Well, shit,” he mutters, and doesn’t have the energy for a goodbye as he hangs up the phone, stepping away from its cradle to sit down heavy in the closest chair.

His boys have gone and gotten themselves in one hell of a mess, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get them out of it this time. That thought scares the absolute shit out of him, and he’s left to sit silently, something heavy and tight taking up all the space in his chest.

It's been his job to keep them safe since John dumped them on his doorstep for the first time, decades ago, and the thought that he won’t be able to help them now weighs on him. As much as he scrambles for a solution, wracking his brain for any loophole, any contact, any string he can yank on to get them a break, he keeps coming up blank, and it seems increasingly clear that there’s not a damn thing he can do to help this time.

As many monsters as he’s dealt with in his time, none ever scare him quite as much as human beings and the things they’re capable of doing to each other when they get scared. An alleged serial killer and his little brother are plenty scary, and Bobby knows all-too well what they do to those kinds of people down south.

The sureness of what’s to come and the total helplessness that he’s left with has him feeling like a whole new kind of failure.

* * *

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is all just a big misunderstanding.”

Dean Winchester is everything that Diana’s been taught to expect from his particular brand of evil. She’s been in the questioning room with him for a handful of seconds, barely long enough to shut the door behind her, but he’s already got a smile on, easy and open. Charming. Sitting back in his chair as if his hands aren’t cuffed to the table and he wasn’t just arrested for breaking and entering, among other things. She doesn’t let her expression change, keeping her face even as she approaches the other side of the table, ignoring the chair that’s there for her and staying on her own two feet, instead. There’s a lot to be said for keeping her position of power clear.

“So you’re telling me that you aren’t the Dean Winchester who tortured and killed those people in St. Louis?” she asks, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms over her chest. Dean looks entirely too at ease for her liking, so she tilts her head to the side as she continues. “Who faked his own death to escape? Who held up that bank in Milwaukee? The same man whose fingerprints have been linked to countless instances of credit card fraud and grave desecration, on top of that?”

Dean just smiles at her again, clasping his hands together on the table and shrugging. “What can I say? I’ve got an evil twin. You’ve got the wrong guy, detective.”

It’s Diana’s turn to smile, then, and she watches the confusion pass over Dean’s fast quicker than she can blink. “I don’t know about a twin, but I can tell you we’ve got your brother, Sam, in the next room. Found him in your motel room, Dean. Think he’ll tell me the same story?”

It’s so fast that she almost misses it, and after the fact, thinks it may have been entirely her imagination. Logically, she knows she’s in the room with an extremely dangerous man, but the look in his eyes- for a split second, she feels frozen to the spot as something dark and irrefutably _violent_ flickers past. Diana tries to keep breathing and reminds herself that he can’t touch her; he’s shackled in place and even a dangerous man can’t break carbon steel with his strength alone.

It doesn’t much set her at ease when Dean’s smile slips into something a little scarier.

“Go ask him, then.” Another shrug, and he settles back once more, but every line in his body speaks of a predator. A lion taking its time while it stalks a gazelle. “Be gentle, though. Kid just got out of a cast, and he’s still bitching about his wrist.”

Diana doesn’t have anything to say to that, so she presses her lips together in a thin line and steps back towards the door. It’s a grand total of seven feet, but she doesn’t turn her back on him once, shivers crawling up her spine as Dean’s eyes follow her all the way out.

The door’s made of steel as she closes it behind her, but it takes some convincing before she can bring herself to step away from it.

Even dangerous men can only do so much in custody.

* * *

“Mara Daniels, public defender’s office.” She offers her hand to shake, and watches the way Sam looks her over before taking it. He’s careful with his hand and Mara traces out the pale skin that stops halfway up his arm with her eyes. “I’m your lawyer, Mr. Winchester.”

“Yeah, I gathered.” Sam doesn’t sound terribly impressed, and he isn’t restrained as he settles back in his chair. Even associated with Dean as he is, Sam’s not considered the dangerous one of the pair, and it seems that he’s been granted a little more freedom than his brother. “So what’s the verdict, then? We’re going away forever? Never gonna see the light of day again?”

He sounds too nonchalant for someone facing the charges that he is, and Mara frowns as she steps closer, taking the seat opposite him slowly. “That kind of thinking isn’t going to get you out of here, Mr. Winchester. You don’t have very much pinning you to these charges. Your brother’s going to be a harder case, but I’m here to talk about yours right now, and I’m confident that we can get the charges dropped to a minimum-”

“The only way they’ll drop the charges on me is if I confess.” Sam interrupts her, and Mara opens her mouth to speak again, but he keeps talking anyways. “And maybe if I throw Dean under the bus, they’ll let me plea bargain for a lighter sentence, but that’s off the table. Just in case that was in question.”

Mara presses her lips together and takes a slow breath. Admittedly, she’s already marked Dean a lost cause- his apparent death aside, they’ve got too much on him back in St. Louis for him to get off without the first-degree murder charge. At this point, it’s just a matter of trying to save Sam from a sentence that he doesn’t seem to deserve. “Message received. That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything we can do for your case, Sam. You have options.”

Sam breathes out a humourless laugh and shakes his head. “Not until Dean does.” He nods towards the door, crossing his arms loosely across his chest. He’s still noticeably favouring one. “I’m not going anywhere until he’s got something solid to back him up. You said it yourself- his is the hard case. Not mine.” A tiny smile, then, but there’s nothing particularly friendly behind it. “If you want to help me, then go help him. Sounds like he needs it.”

Mara doesn’t have a damn thing to say to that, so she just gives him a short nod. She picks up the briefcase she hasn’t even gotten a chance to open and steps towards the door, thinking about the sister she’s got up in Iowa and wondering if either of them would ever go so far for each other.

“Oh, and- Mara? It’s Mara, right?”

She glances over her shoulder to where Sam’s looking at her again, sitting up a little more attentively than before. “Yes. What is it?”

“Don’t take it personally if he makes it hard for you.” There’s something fond in the smile on Sam’s face, and Mara blinks. “He doesn’t want to go to prison, I promise.”

Slowly, Mara nods again, then turns back to the door and lets herself back out into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind her and she’s left a little dazed- must’ve only been with Sam for two minutes, tops, and he’s already trying to talk her out of doing her job. She slowly turns towards the room where Dean’s being held, brow furrowed as she tries to puzzle it out.

She’s always wanted a tough case- something to really challenge her, to make this job as rewarding as it can be- but never figured it’d be quite like this.

To her shock, Dean only makes things harder.

“I’m the one with the proof on me, right?” He cuts straight to the chase; Mara’s only just stepped into the room and barely has a chance to introduce herself before he’s talking. All business. “And Sam might go down because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time or something.”

She blinks, but then nods, setting her things down on the table and opening the briefcase. She can work with this. She’s had to be adaptable in the past, and if the Winchesters are going to keep throwing her curve balls, she’ll have to learn how to keep on her toes. “If you want to look at it that way… essentially, yes. He’s being seen as your accomplice, and the assumption is that he was also involved in the crimes you’ve been accused of.”

“Great.” He smiles at her and it’s unsettling in a way she can’t put her finger on. Chilling. She stays seated across from him, though, folding her hands neatly on the table, because she’s on his side and he needs to know that. She tries not to pay too much attention to the fact that he’s chained to the table. “How long are we gonna be here? In the station, I mean?”

It seems like an abrupt change in subject, but Mara doesn’t let it derail her. “You’ll be transferred to Ector County Detention Centre, probably some time early tomorrow, and that’s where you’ll stay until it’s time for your trial. So not much longer, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean nods again, and he looks thoughtful for a moment. “Guess that’s alright.” He sighs, then, closes his eyes for a moment, and- and when he opens them again, it’s like she’s looking at a different man. A man who’s sobered and aged and matured a thousand years. “Listen, I know you want to do your job, and that’s great, and I appreciate it, I guess, but we both know I’m screwed, so I need you to do me a solid and promise me something. Two things, actually, and the first is that you don’t tell Sam about the second.”

It’s a surprise to hear something like that, considering everything she’s heard about the Winchester brothers- together to the end, as best she knows- but Mara nods all the same, more out of curiosity than anything else. Sam had warned her about Dean being difficult, but this is something else entirely. “You have my word. What do you want me to do?”

Dean smiles at her sadly, and when he tells her what he’s got in mind- well, Sam had asked her if she would try to have him throw his brother under the bus to protect himself, but she wonders whether or not he’d have expected Dean to go on ahead and do it himself.

“Just put it on me, okay? Let me take the fall.” He looks away, like maybe this is having some kind of impact on him, after all, and seems to need a moment to collect himself before he can continue. “Sam can still get out of this if I take the bullet, right?”

“I don’t…” She hesitates, because it goes against most everything she’s been taught as a public defender- a guilty plea on these kinds of charges will still get Dean a life sentence, at best- but Dean looks at her, then, piercing green eyes boring into her, and she’s at a loss.

“You promised.” He sounds almost like a child, then, too- like maybe they’ve just linked pinkies, serious as a heart attack. “You have to. Please?”

And Mara takes a deep breath and pushes everything else aside, because between the look on his face and the soft, pleading tone that he’s adopted in his voice, she doesn’t know how to refuse.

Her tiny nod seems to be enough to satisfy him, because he breathes out slow, sitting back in his chair like she’s lifted something heavy off his shoulders. “Alright. Good. Thanks. I, uh… I think I want to be alone for a bit. If that’s alright.”

She still feels uneasy about this whole thing, but she just nods again, standing from her chair. Where he’s going, Dean is going to have plenty of alone time soon enough, but she keeps that thought to herself and focuses on something else, instead- something she voices a moment later, prompting Dean to look at her once more before she turns away to leave.

“Just… tell me one thing. Did you do it?” Hesitates a short moment before pushing further. “Did you kill those girls?”

There’s no hesitation in Dean’s answer, though, and the smile he gives her is tired, and much older than his twenty-something should allow. “No,” he says simply. “But you wouldn’t believe the real story if I told you, sweetheart. Just- don’t worry about it, okay? You’ll sleep easier.”

It creates more questions than it answers, and Mara’s left feeling off-balance, just as much as she’s left conflicted. Even when the door closes behind her, Dean’s words are still ringing in her ears, so much conviction in his voice that she struggles _not_ to believe that he’s telling the truth.

Maybe if she rides this case hard enough, she’ll get her proper answers.

* * *

“We’ll get ourselves out of this, right?”

Sam doesn’t think they’re really supposed to be talking to each other, but it’s the first time he’s seen his brother since Dean left the motel to grab something to eat a couple days ago, and he can’t keep his mouth shut or his eyes to himself. Dean won’t look him in the eye, staring hard at the floor of the armoured transport vehicle, and that’s concerning all in itself, but Sam watches Dean drudge up half a smile a few seconds later, giving the sort of easy shrug he saves especially for these moments of bravado.

“We’ve been through worse.”

It doesn’t answer Sam’s question, and Sam just nods, pretending like that doesn’t leave a bad feeling in his gut. Surely, they can figure out how to solve this problem- maybe one of their contacts will come through for them, or they’ll find a way to escape, or maybe…

“Hey.” Dean’s voice pulls him out of spiralling into desperation and panic, and he looks up, finally meets his brother’s eyes. “Don’t freak out, okay? It’ll be fine.”

For once in his life, with the muffled chatter of a pair of police officers up front and the heavy weight of the shackles keeping his wrists and ankles bound to the bench he sits on, Sam doesn’t think that those words are quite enough to make things better.

“Okay, Dean.”

That doesn’t stop him from trying his best to smile for his big brother.

* * *

Jake tries to keep to himself, mostly. He knows there are all sorts of people worse than him, locked up in this place to face trial for far more than the petty theft of which he knows he’s guilty. Violent guys, dangerous guys; word on the block is they’ve got a couple murderers in here, too, but people tend to keep that kind of thing pretty hush-hush. No need to piss off the wrong guy and end up with a knife in your gut.

But still, he hears whispers. Whispers about a pair of brother admitted on suspicion of murder, among other things, and- well, it’s only human to be curious, isn’t it? He can’t right well help himself if he wants to know more.

That’s what’s got him staring when he spots one of the new guys in the library one day. He’s on shelving duty, and the guy’s just minding his own business, real big and real quiet, but he’s messing with one of the books across the room and Jake can’t stop staring. He knows he should look away, he _does_ , but it’s hard not to look when the kid- ‘cause he’s got to be a kid; the floppy bangs he’s wearing have him looking not a year past twenty-one- straightens up slightly and smiles all soft and secret, and- and looks right at him suddenly, and that’s when Jake turns his head so quick he almost gives himself whiplash.

His heart’s pounding in his chest at a million miles a second and all he can think is that he’d really, _really_ like it if he didn’t get shanked at lunch today.

He keeps his eyes on his own hands for the next several minutes, but when he hears the door swing shut, leaving the place quiet, he chances a glance up, and the kid’s gone without a trace. Jake can finally breathe again, but still, he finds his eyes drawn to the shelf where tall, dark, and terrifying had been hovering.

Curiosity killed the cat, is how the saying goes, and he figures it applies especially in Ector County Detention Centre.

Jake drifts over without really meaning to, but he can’t find anything out of the ordinary. The books are in perfect order, tucked all neat right into the shelf- author names starting with “ _D”_ here in the fiction section of the library, and ain’t it funny to see _Crime and Punishment_ lined up right with the rest, like it isn’t the capital of irony in this place?

He returns to his job and doesn’t think too much of it when another new guy- shorter, with cropped hair like he’s ready to get shipped off to prison and a swagger to his step like he was born to rule his cellblock- makes his way to the same shelf and tugs that particular book out to take a look at. Jake doesn’t see the smile on the guy’s face, or the piece of paper he leaves behind, tucked with care into the pages of the novel.

He tries not to, at least. He keeps his head down and holds his breath because he wants to get out of here alive, and there’s no sense in tangling with someone dangerous and Jake likes to think he’s got a little bit of sense left in his head, despite everything he’s done in his life to suggest otherwise.

He stays quiet and he stays clear. Maybe with a little luck, he’ll be able to stay alive, too.

* * *

“We’re getting out of here, right?” Sam keeps his voice low because he knows what’s good for him, and Dean doesn’t look straight at his brother while they eat. It’s a noisy canteen but there’s no such thing as too safe when they’ve already landed themselves in this situation to begin with. “Just some county jail. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Dean wets his lips and keeps his eyes on some fixed point in the distance and he doesn’t tell his brother how screwed they are. They’ve got no friends in here and no escape secured, and a tiny part of him that he’s trying his best to squish down into nothing whispers _you’re going to die for a crime you didn’t commit._

He doesn’t say any of that. Didn’t write it down in his little note, either- just a quick mention of talking during mealtime, and for Sam to watch his back while they were apart. Can’t trust anybody in a place like this.

“Yeah.” He musters up a little grin, anyways, and gives Sam a sideways glance because it’s his job to be the one who knows what’s going on and how to fix things when they go wrong. Especially when Sam’s driven to keep asking, keep seeking reassurance that they’re going to be okay. It’s his job to make sure that things are okay. “’Course we are. Just gotta take in the view while we’re here, y’know?”

He tilts his chair back on two legs and stretches his arms up over his head, slow and languid, and he watches the way his brother’s eyes track the movements. The hint of relief on Sam’s face that comes with his unconcerned response. “’Sides, how often do we get to go to prison?”

Might as well make the most of it. It’s not like they’ve got any other choice.

* * *

There’s a certain routine to visitation. Luke shows up early at the detention centre, eight-fifteen in the morning every single time. He’s greeted and he’s searched and he gives his father’s name, just the same as always. They’ve been waiting for the trial for a couple of months now, a long series of delays pushing it back from its original date back in March, and Luke’s long since gotten used to it. The sympathetic-but-plastic smiles, the rough pat-down, the way he’s ushered along into the visitation room like he’s a burden they want to be rid of quickly.

Not great customer service, all things considered, but he doesn’t expect a whole lot else from a place like this.

It’s a routine. It’s familiar and safe and he sits in his chair on the side of the table without a steel loop through which handcuffs may be threaded, and he waits.

It’s familiar, and it’s safe, right up until it isn’t, because he looks up when the door opens and catches the tiniest glimpse of a pair of men and feels like his breath’s been stolen right out of his lungs.

It’s not that he’s a fag. He’s a born-and-raised Christian; a good Texan boy who knows when to keep his mouth shut and turn his eyes away. The sort who knows what kind of thing is dangerous to even think about, and this- this tops the list, really, and he doesn’t even _see_ the men properly, just a pair of forms in orange jumpsuits for the split-second it takes them to pass by the door, but it’s long legs and strong arms; eyes that are soft and sharp and beautiful, and it’s the way they _move_. Like predators, he thinks; like there’s not a damn thing in the world that could ever hurt them.

It’s the way they’re together, too. With a barely-there sort of distance and the way their hands brush on the backswing while they walk, and there’s this indescribable intimacy to that infinitesimal moment in time; two bodies that seem to make up one person, one _soul_ , and Luke feels his heart heavy and quick right at the back of his throat.

He doesn’t hardly notice when his dad shows up, and he’s a stutter-step sideways of how he should be for the rest of that meeting, one eye on the door like if he hopes hard enough, he’ll get to see them again. Not that God’s ever been real kind to his type, but there’s no harm in praying, all the same.

Later, he thinks that maybe they were a dream- the kind he gathers close to his chest and doesn’t dare to so much as write down. The kind that other boys might label a _nightmare._

A beautiful fucking nightmare.

* * *

“Fresh meat, huh?”

Jimmy doesn’t get more than a grunt in response from his shift partner standing beside him, and he scowls, turning back towards the canteen and leaning against the wall. Working as a guard at a detention centre is sort of like being a mall cop- he’s got all the same training as the guys working up at the correctional, but none of the respect. It’s a hell of a slow job with most of the inmates playing it safe until their trials, besides the rare case when someone particularly dangerous comes through and stirs things up. He’s long past feeling bad for looking forward to those moments of action.

He knows they’ve got a couple big fish in house now- grand theft, some assaults, even a couple high-scale B&Es- but the pair of brothers suspected of murder in the first are by far the most interesting. Killers are usually the ones other people avoid, and the ones who act out all on their own ‘cause they’re unstable or they just don’t give a shit. Days, now, he’s been waiting for the shoe to drop, for one of them to try something, but it’s… quiet. Things are quiet and boring, and though his eyes find them as soon as they come into the room for lunch, they just go on keeping to themselves, and it’s frustrating in a way that it shouldn’t be.

But still, he speaks, because even if his partner’s even less interested in this than he is, he’s got to fill the silence somehow. Thinks he’ll just go crazy, otherwise. “Y’figure there’s somethin’ weird about them two?”

Silence, this time, and Jimmy’s sure that their nonexistent conversation has ended, but a couple minutes later he gets the response he’s looking for, more aggressive than he’d been expecting.

“Couple’a fags,” Pete mutters, disgust obvious in his voice. Jimmy finds the pair again and watches the way they sit off on their own, heads ducked low and close, and he swallows thick. “Deserve what’s comin’ to ‘em.”

Jimmy doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he does his best to drag his eyes away from the brothers and half-heartedly scans the room for any disturbances. He’s barely going through the motions; all he can see now is how close they stand and how little time they spend apart. Thinks of his own brother and almost physically recoils at the idea of such proximity.

Hell; maybe they ain’t brothers at all. He clings to that idea because the alternative turns his stomach, and it’s more than he bargained for looking for something worth wondering about to begin with.

* * *

People usually know well enough to keep to themselves around here. Sure, there are enough guys who come in with a friend- too common to do something stupid when you’re with someone you trust only to get slammed for it later- but then, most of them break off and do their own thing after the first couple days behind bars. Loyalty is one thing, but knowing you’re gonna go away for a few years if you don’t give up the guy who came in beside you can do scary things to people.

Still, there are a few stupid enough to cling to their partners. “Accomplices,” some people would label them. Some who don’t know what’s good for them, or that prison- even just a short-term facility like this one- is as dog-eat-dog as it gets. Every man for himself; even the gangs that form are delicate and liable to break apart at the smallest disturbance in their hierarchy, and Gino- well, Gino’s learned well and good to steer clear. Even if it’d be nice for someone to have his back now and again, this is better in the long run.

And yet-

And yet.

Couple boys from Kansas who come in with some heavy charges are real good at keeping to themselves, except that there’s two of ‘em instead of just the one. And Gino watches them, sometimes, just to see- just to keep an eye out for the moment they snap and turn on each other; it’s not like there’s a whole lot of entertainment in this place besides inmate drama- except that he realizes pretty quick that he’s wrong about them right from the get-go.

They’re two people, maybe, with two bodies and two sets of arms and legs and hands and feet and two faces and two matching orange jumpsuits, but they’re- they’re. Gino doesn’t have a damn clue what they are, really, but they’re _one_ , he thinks, in a way no one else has ever been, and.

He sees them together every time two inmates could possibly be together, and sometimes he sees the way they touch- thoughtless, careless; an extension of their own breathing, an extension of their very _existence_ \- and he thinks that maybe they aren’t gonna turn on each other, after all.

It scares him. It scares the _shit_ out of him seeing the way they are together, and the way they look at outsiders- the way a stray dog looks at its competition when food is on the line- the way they look at _each other_ even more, though; soft and quiet and tender and he feels like he’s intruding by being in the same room.

He’s terrified of those boys. Doesn’t know a damn thing about them except for how they are with each other, and he knows damn well that he’ll be best off keeping it that way.

He’ll take his life sentence over a death sentence any day.

* * *

Mara talks them through the entire arraignment before it takes place, but Dean tunes most of it out. There isn’t a whole lot that he needs to know to do his part, and his brother’s always been the one to remember these things, anyways.

Sam listens because it’s interesting, because he’s curious, and because it stirs up memories of the half-life he lived at Stanford. Legal procedure used to be like breathing to him and some of that’s still there, albeit buried a little more deeply these days. He listens because he knows that Dean won’t, and he trusts himself more than the guards or the judge to keep his brother in line and on his best behaviour.

This is the easy part. This is the part where they walk in and say _“not guilty, Your Honour,”_ and then they leave. It’s five minutes of hearing their rights and their charges and looking as presentable as a couple guys can when they’re in orange jumpsuits, and it’s the first step on the path to fighting against what the law has set out against them.

They both know their odds, and they both know that Dean’s drawn the short straw. The fact that they’re fighting the charges doesn’t do a whole lot for them when such substantial evidence pins him to the murders in St. Louis, and even with Mara’s attempted reassurances that she’ll do everything in her power to win the case, their chances are minimal and the best they can likely hope for is a life sentence.

Sam will get off lighter. Sam could get a couple years, maybe, if they play it safe; if Dean’s plan goes through then he won’t get any time at all. Maybe a slap on the wrist for associating with such a shitty brother. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep quiet and accept that, too- but then, neither of them have ever been very good at keeping their own best interests in mind when it comes to their other half.

“All you have to do is tell the judge ‘not guilty’,” she instructs them again, and Dean nods along as if he’s going to follow that advice. He knows how these things go; as soon as he tries to fight the charges against him, it becomes a big deal. It becomes a whole trial, with witnesses and evidence and a guarantee that he’ll get slammed with something nasty. Sam’ll just go down with him because that’s what they _do_ , and Dean isn’t about to sit back and let that happen. Not this time.

Sam deserves to live his life, even if Dean no longer has it as an option. All he needs to do is shift the focus of the trial, he thinks, and- and maybe he’ll be able to give Sam a proper out. Maybe he’ll be able to get one of them back out into the world, even if it’s alone. Even if the thought of rotting in a prison cell for god knows how long, all by himself, turns Dean’s stomach. He’s never been any good at being alone.

There’s no way to be subtle about this, but he tries his damn best, anyways.

“Can we talk?” he asks Mara as soon as she’s done talking. Sam gives him an odd look and Dean pretends like he doesn’t see. “Alone?”

Mara glances between them uncertainly like he’s caught her off-guard- not surprising, since he and Sam have been attached at the hip every other opportunity they get- but then nods, eyes settling on Sam. “Do you mind?”

Sam’s still obviously off-put by the whole thing but he nods, shifting a little on his feet and glancing towards the guards who stand outside the door. They’ve just got a few minutes until their trial, and there aren’t a whole lot of places to go. “I’ll, uh… head to the bathroom, I guess.”

Mara nods and smiles, though her confusion is still clear as Sam heads towards the door and is escorted towards the courthouse’s bathroom. She turns back to Dean as soon as he’s gone with a crease in her brow and questions clear on her face. “Don’t you two share pretty much everything?”

“I’m pleading guilty,” Dean tells her instead of answering that. Saying it out loud isn’t as hard as it should be, and it’s kind of like practice, he thinks. He’ll have to say it in front of a judge in a few minutes, and he doesn’t want to fuck up something so important. Not when his brother’s life might depend on this handful of syllables.

There’s a moment of stunned silence as Mara fumbles for a response, and Dean tries his best to fill it. He doesn’t want to give her a chance to talk him out of this. “Look, I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s the only-”

“I really don’t recommend that, Dean,” she manages a second later, cutting him off. “You don’t… maybe you’re hoping to strike a good plea bargain with the prosecutor, but I don’t think you understand how badly they want to see you go down-”

“I don’t care what happens to me.” That shuts her up, and Dean shifts on his feet, glancing away. His hands are cuffed and his wrists are raw and aching and more than anything, he just wishes this was all over. That it’s some bad dream, and that sooner or later, he’ll wake up all cramped up from sleeping in the car, and he’ll be able to go back to his less-than-perfect life with his brother without a care in the world. He wishes they were back on the damn road instead of struggling with the shitty justice system, and he hates that there’s nothing he can do to get them out of this mess. Not really. “You promised, Mara. You promised to help, and I want you to get a deal for Sam.”

There’s nothing else he can do, and even though the thought terrifies him, he’s trying to numb himself to it. Maybe he’ll be lucky and they’ll just put him behind bars for the rest of his life, but- well, Dean’s never had much luck with these sorts of things. He knows it’s his only option, though, because there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of him getting out of this kind of bind, but if absolutely nothing else, he can put Sam in the clear so that they don’t both have to go down.

It isn’t the first time he’ll be putting his life on the line for his little brother, but if he knows anything about how Texas treats their murderers, it’ll probably be the last.

* * *

Sam grabs his brother as soon as they’re back in the same room, and maybe Mara feels the tension radiating off him because she mumbles an excuse and hurries out soon after, leaving them in the care of a couple guards who are mostly minding their own business. Probably for the best, because Dean already looks skittish and an audience would only make it worse.

“What the hell was that?” he asks lowly, and maybe he’s holding Dean’s arm a little too tight but that’s how they’ve always been. All physical in how they express themselves, and it’s easier than trying to find the right words, anyways. “What did you two talk about?”

And Dean smiles at him, and it’s cracked at the edges, ‘cause this is what they do, too. They evade and they redirect and they never say the things they need to. Even now. Even when it’s so damn important to be on the same page. “Wanted to ask for her number. Girls love the bad boys, right?”

And _God,_ but Sam can’t deal with this right now. Not when he’s already stressed out with the trial they’re about to walk into, and his grip tightens and he gives Dean a hard shake- enough to rattle him and it shouldn’t be damn near as startling as it is, by the look on his brother’s face, but he’s handcuffed and just short of defenseless and that kind of hurts Sam to think about. This isn’t how things are supposed to be.

“Don’t fuck with me, Dean,” he says, low and kind of desperate. “Not now. Don’t- just. Just tell me the truth. C’mon.”

Dean won’t meet his eyes anymore but he’s quiet, now. Doesn’t do a damn thing to resist Sam’s hold on him that’s probably pressing fingerprint bruises into his arms and even leaning into it, a little bit, maybe as hungry for the proximity as Sam is. It’s been hellish trying to get through the last several days, rarely allowed to see each other and always with escorts present. They haven’t been alone in what feels like an eternity, and there’s a feeling of dread in Sam’s gut that says maybe they never will be again.

Dean’s response, coming out in a rush of words like he has to force it out, only makes it worse.

“M’gonna plead guilty and Mara’s going to set you up with the other lawyer so you don’t get any charges.” Dean clears his throat, and he shifts his weight, and Sam’s speechless. Cold. “And you, uh- you get to go free, y’know? Hey, maybe try that law thing again. Firsthand experience goes a long way.”

He’s trying to smile again and more than anything, Sam wants to punch him.

“No,” he says flatly, like it’s an order, and maybe that’s never been his place but he doesn’t care. “Don’t be stupid, Dean, we- we’re fighting this. We can win the case. We just need to ask for a trial by jury, and they’ll-”

“They’ll see a guy who murdered some women, and his little brother who got dragged along for the ride,” Dean interrupts him. “They’ll see a fucking criminal, Sam. Unless you want to tell them the story about the shapeshifter that actually did it? We never did talk about pleading insanity.” He stops himself short and takes a deep breath, and it’s all Sam can do to watch, despair slowly creeping up on him. “Look, you’ll be okay. They’ll let you off easy, and you’ll be free to go. Hell, maybe visit me a couple times a month and remind me what the outside world’s like.”

He sobers up a little and looks Sam right in the eye, and for a second, Sam feels like a little kid again. Like his big brother’s still guiding him through the world by the hand and there’s nothing to be scared of as long as Dean’s there to take care of him. “They’ve got too much that pins me to St. Louis. It’s over for me, Sam, but- but it doesn’t have to be for you. Just let me do this.”

And then Sam remembers that he _isn’t_ a little kid anymore, and that maybe it’s his turn to take one for the team.

“If you plead guilty,” Sam says softly, fingers still curled tight around Dean’s arms, “then I will, too. I’ll tell them how I helped you kill those women, and I’ll tell them all about the bank, and we’ll go down together, Dean.”

Dean just stares for a moment, lips parted and fumbling for a response. “Sam, that’s- you can’t-”

“Yeah, I can.” Sam keeps his voice even because his decision is made and there’s no way in hell he’s going to let his brother do this alone. “Whatever happens, guilty or not- we’re in this together. You’re my brother, and I’m not leaving you behind.”

It’s the end of the conversation, and they both know it. Dean won’t stop looking at him, and Sam doesn’t let go until Mara returns and the guards get ready to escort them to the courtroom.

* * *

“Not guilty,” Dean tells the judge, probably too quietly, and clears his throat when his brother nudges him. “Your Honour.”

“Not guilty,” Sam echoes when it’s his turn, and they share a look while they’re denied conditional release. _A danger to the public,_ the judge intones, but the brothers are only focused on each other.

For better or worse, and ‘til death do us part. They don’t know another way to be.

* * *

Mara watches the way they are together, after that. How Sam hovers close to his brother’s side and glares at anyone else who comes near. There’s an exclusionary aura around the two of them, something that wards off outsiders and creates an odd sort of privacy that one may not expect to encounter in the middle of a busy courthouse.

She knows now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she needs to fight for these boys. She sees the way they look at each other, and the old, _old_ looks they have in their eyes as their fates are laid out before them. She’s seen a lot of bad people in her line of work, and her gut tells her that the Winchester aren’t cut from that sort of cloth. They’re scary, but they aren’t killers, and they don’t deserve to be punished for something that she has convinced herself never happened. At least not the way that everybody seems to think.

_“You wouldn’t believe the real story if I told you.”_

The boys are escorted out, and Mara gathers her things, taking a deep breath. The prosecution will be preparing their case, and she needs to be ready to shut it down however she can. Hopeless as it may seem, she refuses to stop trying.

* * *

Jury duty sounds like a chore until June learns a little more about the case for which she’s been summoned. She thinks herself a simple woman, but no right Christian would ever deny an opportunity to help God deliver His justice unto sinners like the boys being charged before her.

They’re not from Texas. She knows that right soon as one of them opens his mouth to speak. They stand tall like soldiers but they’re too young and too evil to have ever served anywhere that matters, so she doesn’t quite know what to make of them. They keep casting wary looks around the room, too, and maybe that much, she can understand- they’re right to be scared, with the conviction that’s coming their way- but they’re more like caged animals than they are like men, and it just reaffirms everything she’s been told. They’re bad, the two of them; at least one a killer and the other just as hellbound as the first.

“All rise.”

The trial starts off slow, and though they’re really supposed to stay quiet, the other jury members whisper amongst themselves. Seven and Eight keep glancing at the boys- one of them, the murderer, locked away in a bulletproof glass box, while the brother sits with their lawyer, looking a little more dignified- and then back towards each other, and Eleven sits with a scowl on his face and a gold-chained cross around his neck that says his decision’s already been made. Seems the only people in the room who don’t think they did it are the sinners themselves and maybe their lawyer.

Just confused, June’s sure. A nice girl waiting for the Lord to make His will known. Just a nice girl doing her job.

She smiles to herself, just a little bit, as she settles back in her seat. The two sinners are already squirming, and there’s just a little bit of pleasure in being able to watch.

* * *

"You were a good student, Sam.” The prosecutor is relentless, and Sam keeps his face carefully even. The man- Jones, or something equally forgettable; he doesn’t see any benefit to getting to know the man trying to lock he and his brother away for the rest of their lives- clearly has an angle, and that angle seems to be to break him apart from Dean. To play up the idea that he should leave his brother behind. “Why did you throw that away?”

Sam doesn’t so much as glance towards Dean, who he knows looks entirely too small and alone where he’s been locked up, apart from Mara and him and everyone else, because he’s played this game before. He knows better than to put his own weakness on display.

“Grief does weird things to people. Jess died, and…” He shrugs, trying to ignore the twinge of real pain at the memory associated with this. He didn’t deserve someone so good in his life. “And I needed time to deal.”

“So you decided that joining your brother on a crime spree across the country was your best bet?”

“Objection,” Mara cuts in, and Sam doesn’t break the eye contact he’s got with Jones. “Leading the witness, Your Honour.”

“Sustained.”

Jones clenches his jaw, and Sam allows himself a tiny smile. At least someone here is still on their side.

* * *

“Members of the jury, the defendant in this case is charged with a criminal offense.”

_Capital murder. Aggravated kidnapping. Aggravated robbery. Breaking and entering. Assault. Accessory to murder. Credit card fraud. Grave desecration. Theft over. Theft under. Grand theft auto…_

The list goes on, and it goes on, and it goes on. Mostly, the trial has focused on the murder and robbery charges, with a brief aside for the smaller felonies, but it’s easy to see the shock and horror on the faces of each jury member as the charges continue to pile up.

Mara keeps her expression carefully even. She’s got to believe that there’s hope in this, or they’re done for.

It’s only really the first charge that’s got her heart beating so quickly, though.

“Capital murder is a first-degree felony, punishable by a life sentence in a state prison, or if the prosecutor has chosen to seek it, by death. For the case of Dean Winchester, the state has chosen to seek the death penalty.”

It’s not a surprise, and it’s not new information, but it causes murmurings in the gallery and it’s impossible to miss the way that Sam goes a little tense in the shoulders beside her. Mara tries to keep her eyes on the judge, straight ahead, but Sam’s restless in his seat and when she glances towards him, he’s looking at his brother, fingers curled tight into fists like he’s trying to compensate for their emptiness. She can’t help but wonder how much more stable he would be if Dean were right there beside him, and just as she has before, watching these two and their mutual gravitational pull, Mara has trouble tearing her eyes away from the pair of them to pay attention to the end of the charging.

“You should now consider all the evidence. Now retire, and choose a presiding juror. When you have reached a decision, the presiding juror should notify me and return the verdict.”

It’s relatively quiet once the jury starts shuffling out, and the room rises while the judge leaves, as well. Their audience starts talking amongst themselves, and Mara takes a moment to breathe, distracting herself by carefully straightening her papers as if Sam’s not trembling beside her.

She’s done everything she can. It’s out of her hands now.

“So,” Dean speaks up, and it startles her to the point of jumping. When she glances back towards him, he’s smiling without humour, slumped back in his seat with his fingertips drumming senseless rhythms into the arms of the chair and a sort of desolate acceptance in his eyes that speaks volumes about the kind of life he’s lived. “How fucked are we?”

She doesn’t have an answer to that, and maybe it’s her silence that makes Dean laugh. Maybe she doesn’t really want to know.

* * *

Things get loud as soon as the bailiff closes the door on them, and Sheila watches with a touch of quiet fascination.

This is supposed to be a civilized discussion, she’s sure, but it’s obviously already heated; every juror in the room seems to have a very strong opinion about one brother or the other, and they all seem intent on making that very clear.

“He’s a monster,” says Nine with a snort, shaking his head in apparent disgust. He’s an older man, grey at the temples, business-casual. She’s sure he’d rather be anywhere else but here. “Put ‘im in the chair, and let Old Sparky do the deciding for us.”

“They don’t use the chair anymore,” Two replies with a deep sigh. Younger, obviously tired. Sheila wonders how much he relies on the coffee he likely hasn’t had this morning. “It’s lethal injection. Not that it matters. If he makes it that far, it’s because he’s guilty, end of story.”

“And are we supposed to believe he isn’t?” This woman, Sheila thinks, will not be swayed; there’s a cross hanging from her neck and a pinched look on her face that reminds Shelia of her mother. “He’s got that poor girl’s blood on his hands. Literally, according to the police report. He needs to be put down before he hurts anyone else, right along with that brother of his. Twisted, the both of them.”

That’s when Sheila can’t keep quiet anymore, and she swallows hard before sitting up a little straighter and taking a breath.

“He doesn’t deserve to go down like that,” she says, clear and careful, and does her best not to flinch when everyone’s suddenly looking at her. “The younger one, I mean. Sam. It sounds like he didn’t have much of a choice but to be dragged into this whole thing.”

Naturally, it just prompts another bout of argument, and Sheila settles back in her seat with a soft sigh.

She’s got a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t going to be very easy.

* * *

Dean makes a point not to watch the clock while the jury is out deliberating. It’s hard not to be restless, though, not to feel the empty seconds crawling under his skin as they slowly tick by; there is both substantial distance and a physical, bulletproof barrier separating him from his brother, and as much comfort as it may bring him to stare at the back of Sam’s head while he waits, watching Sam shift around in his seat and fiddle with a pen and doodle once Mara offers him a piece of paper is just driving home how far apart they are. Realistically, it’s less than ten feet, but it might as well be the width of an entire galaxy; neither of them allows him to reach out and comfort his little brother, or to quietly seek that comfort out for himself. They’re both alone right now, and the cold, jaded part of him can’t help but wonder if that’s on purpose.

He wants to talk to Sam, but knows there isn’t much of a point. Everyone will hear what he says, and the only things he wants to say to his brother right now are not intended for any other ears. The thought just heightens the overpowering feeling of being watched; he’s as good as an animal on display at the zoo, shackled to his chair and sitting front and centre before the audience. Perhaps it’s a little better that he faces the front of the room instead of them, but all it does is allow their judging eyes to drill holes in his back. He does everything he can to resist the urge to shrink down lower in his chair. He will not show weakness to these people. He will not give them that kind of satisfaction.

It feels like a short eternity has passed when the bailiff returns to the courtroom with the jury behind him, leading them to their seats before announcing the judge’s entrance. Dean stands because he knows he’ll only be reprimanded if he doesn’t, watching with quiet calculation as the man takes his seat before everyone else in the room follows suit.

One of the jury members stands to speak, a guy who looks like he’s never seen a day of physical activity in his life and probably works behind a desk that costs more than Dean’s car. “We, the jury, have reached a decision on the sentence for Dean Winchester.”

That catches Dean’s attention for more reasons than one. Besides listening intently for his own fate- one he can already guess, judging by the smug looks on the faces of the jury members, poorly hidden under a mask of grimness- he’s surprised by the fact that, apparently, he is the only one about whom they have reached their decision. His eyes slide over towards his brother where Sam’s sitting straight up, barely moving enough to breathe as they wait for the sentence to be announced. Maybe they haven’t quite figured out what to do with him, yet.

The man clears his throat and straightens up a little bit, and for the briefest of moments, he glances over and meets Dean’s eyes. Dean isn’t entirely sure what he sees there, but some of the blood seems to drain out of the man’s face before he quickly looks away. Dean’s quietly pleased with himself and then settles to wait, feeling entirely too detached from what he knows is about to happen to him.

“We find Dean Winchester guilty on all counts, and have unanimously agreed that he should be sentenced to death.”

He says more after that, probably, but that’s when Dean stops listening past the ringing in his ears.

It feels a little bit like everything is moving in slow motion, maybe. His eyes are on his little brother and he watches the way Sam tries to move, like every muscle in his body tenses all at the same time in the way he jerks towards the jury before he stops himself and Mara puts a hand on his shoulder, not restraining as much as it is comforting. She doesn’t look very good, either; she’s trembling a little bit and Dean tears his eyes away a moment later in favour of looking back towards the dozen people who just told him he no longer deserves to be alive.

They’re looking at Sam and they’re looking at him, too, some of them with varying levels of fear in their expressions. Dean decides very quickly that he does not have anything left to lose, and he just- he grins at them. Bares his teeth and curls his lip and then _yanks_ forward, jerks against his chains as if there’s any give to them (there isn’t) just so he can watch them react.

One woman even screams, and that time, he grins for real, big and feral because he knows it’s what they want to see.

These people want to think he’s a monster. They _need_ to think that; they’ve convinced themselves of that very fact so they can convince their respective consciences that it’s okay to put him to death. You can’t kill another human being without consequence- ironically, exactly what’s landed him here to begin with- but when that human being deserves it…

Well, maybe they aren’t really a human being at all.

Everyone here wants to put a monster to rest, so Dean will give them a monster. He knows good and well how to play this part because monsters are the ones who landed him here to begin with; the real kind who steal children away and consume human flesh and laugh while they bathe in the blood of everyone you’ve ever loved. The kind who burn mothers on ceilings and trade souls for promises.

People are different sorts of monsters, Dean thinks, but the lines are blurry and no one in this room besides his brother knows where to draw them.

So he laughs, and he yanks at his restraints, and he snarls like a caged animal when they don’t look scared enough. He wants to terrify them; he wants to live in their nightmares for the rest of their lives, as much for his own satisfaction as to allow them to rest with their decision today.

They’re putting away a monster. He isn’t a man, and he doesn’t deserve to be considered as such.

Dean Winchester is a monster, for all intents and purposes, and for those twelve individuals who’ve sentenced him to die, there is no need to look any further. They’ve caught their killer, and they’re all lined up to take their pounds of flesh.

He’s sure he won’t have anything left by the time they’re done, but then, maybe things were always supposed to end this way. All he’s got left is the little brother trembling and fuming in his seat outside of this little glass prison, and all that’s left for him to do is pray.

Dean has never believed in God, but he can only hope that the big guy’s feeling merciful. They’re going to need all the help they can get.

* * *

Neither of these boys deserve the fates they’ve been dealt.

Mara’s left feeling, for the first time in a long time, like a complete failure. Dean’s sentence hits her hard, and even though Sam gets off lighter- seems the prosecution succeeded in convincing the jury that he just ended up being dragged along for the ride- he’ll still be behind bars for the rest of his life. Neither of them speak in the aftermath, and she can’t bring herself to look towards them, barely managing to swallow the lump in her throat before it’s time to shake her opponent’s hand.

She used to be better at this. She swears there used to be a separation; she’s always been good at staying just detached enough not to take these sorts of losses personally. It’s the only way to survive being a public defender, where you might end up as the voice for the very worst people society has to offer just as often as you can protect those who haven’t been treated fairly throughout their lives.

Sam and Dean, though- Sam and Dean are…

She thinks maybe she’s just never met anyone like these boys before. She’s never had to handle a case like that of the Winchesters, and she’s certainly never watched one of her charges be sentenced to death. It’s shaken her to the core, and it’s a feeling she can’t get past as appeals are discussed, and as the judge drones on about the procedures from here on out.

“I’m sorry,” she says very quietly when only Sam is close enough to hear her. He doesn’t look her way, but he tilts his head minutely. An acknowledgement. “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything to her, but just before he’s shackled and taken away, his hand brushes against hers, just for a moment. She’s hit hard in the chest with the understanding that he doesn’t hold her accountable for this, but for some reason, it doesn’t help settle her conscience.

Watching armed guards lead the both of them away, Mara can’t help but feel like she could have done more. She can’t help but feel that she should’ve fought harder, worked longer, done _something_ else to save those boys.

It’s out of her hands now, though. All that’s left for her to do is sit back and watch.

She’s never much liked the thought of being a bystander.

* * *

“Mr. Winchester! Could we have a word? How are you feeling about your sentence? Are you surprised by the verdict?”

Renée considers herself intrepid, above anything else, as least so far as it comes to her job. It’s been a long time since Odessa has had a case anywhere near as exciting as this one, and she’d woken up nearly at the crack of dawn to make sure she was here and set up on time to catch the exciting bits. She clearly isn’t the only reporter to have had the same idea, because as the Winchester brothers are led out of the courthouse towards a couple of armoured vehicles that will likely take them straight to their assigned prisons, they’re met with a swarm of paparazzi that rivals the red carpet.

Sam was the one to make it out first, and he’d been stone-faced the entire time, standing tall and carefully avoiding eye contact with everyone vying for his attention. Renée has done her research, and she’s not entirely surprised by the behaviour, shifting her attention to the older brother while other journalists and photographers try to get something out of Sam.

Dean seems like the interesting case to her, anyways. Capital murder is one hell of a charge, and even though he’s been handed the harshest penalty that the American justice system has to offer, he looks surprisingly indifferent when he’s led down the stairs. She expects to be ignored again and is more or less resigned to do her report with quotes straight from the trial itself, but suddenly Dean’s glancing her way and flashing a grin, pinning her on the spot with emerald green eyes and the sense that he’s not exactly an amateur when it comes to women.

Judging by his pretty face, that isn’t entirely surprising.

“Mr. Winchester?” he repeats, and he sounds entirely too amused, given his situation. “C’mon, that’s what the called my grandad. Call me Dean, sweetheart.”

The guard behind Dean gives him a rough nudge while Renée tries to respond, and he huffs, glancing back over his shoulder. “What? I can’t have my fifteen minutes of fame before I go rot in a cell somewhere?”

“Mr. Wi- Dean,” Renée manages after a moment of fumbling, quickly pulling herself together in the face of this opportunity. “Do you have anything you want to say to the public after this shocking result? You must be feeling overwhelmed.”

By the look on Dean’s face, he’s anything but. Renée feels a little bit like he’d have ordered her a drink already, had they met somewhere a little different than this. “Not a whole lot _to_ say. Guess we lost this one.” His eyes drift away from her, towards the trucks waiting- towards his brother, she realizes. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

It’s a mystifying answer, even as she scribbles down every word, and she finds herself intrigued all over again, aching to sit him down and have a proper conversation with him. She can’t imagine the stories he must have to tell, and for some reason, it doesn’t once occur to her to fear him. Not the way that any sensible person should fear a man who’s just been convicted of capital murder, among other things. The guard is getting impatient, though, and even with Dean’s annoyed glance backwards, she senses that she doesn’t have very much time.

“Thank you.” She hesitates for a moment, then, before deciding that she doesn’t have anything to lose by saying what she wants to say. Surely, it won’t hurt Dean to hear it. “Good luck, Dean. I’ll be praying for you both.”

The surprised look on his face is worth it, and he gives her a tiny smile before straightening up a little more. “Don’t think there’s much the man upstairs can do for me now, but I’ll remember that, darlin’. Thanks.”

With that, all she can do is watch him be led away and loaded into the back of the waiting truck. She clutches her notepad with a white-knuckled grip and watches as the brothers are driven away, off to a different, more permanent set of armoured boxes, and off to rot for the rest of their lives.

Renée takes a deep breath and thinks about the way Dean smiled at her; thinks about the little boy in the quirk of his lips that sat so heavy against the age in his eyes. He’d spoken like a charmer but stood like a soldier, and the way he’s so successfully locked up his reaction to what’s coming speaks of someone who’s seen trauma before.

She’s got a handful of sentences and, with any luck, some decent pictures. She shakes off the chills that are creeping their way down her spine- tries not to think about the ache in her chest, knowing full well where Dean’s going to end up within a few hours- and turns to head back to her car, tilting her head for her photographer to follow along.

She’s got a story to write about a pair of brothers, and she’s got some digging to do to fill in as many blanks as she can. Renée has become very good at reading people over the years, and Dean Winchester doesn’t feel like the murderer that he’s been painted as over the past several weeks. With a high-profile case like this one, she can’t imagine that she’s the only one with questions. Maybe there’s more to the story than what’s been presented in court.

Time to do some research.

* * *

Dean hasn’t been allowed to keep his watch, and no one will tell him what time it is or how much time has passed as the drive continues. He suspects that they’re getting a bit of a kick out of keeping his guessing, but the joke’s on them; he gets his estimates every time they stop for gas or a bathroom break. If he’s good at anything these days, it’s at enduring long road trips, so even as the hours tick by, he finds ways to occupy himself.

Admittedly, I-spy doesn’t last very long in a lonely steel box, but- well, he tries his best.

The lack of stimulation mostly leaves Dean to his thoughts, and it just so happens that they’re the absolute last place in which he wants to find himself right now. _“Sentenced to death”_ keeps echoing through his head, a constant ringing in his ears that isn’t helped by his humming, or even when he starts talking to himself. He mumbles the words a few times, like it’ll help any, but all it does to hear them out loud it to make them a tiny bit more real.

The reminder only serves to bring him back to a thought that he usually does his very best to avoid, mostly for Sam’s sake. It brings him back to those times he’s laid, dying, in a hospital bed- catastrophic heart failure first, and a car crash, after that- and to the knowledge that he had no right to survive either of those situations. Brings him back to the fact that two people have _died_ to keep him breathing to this day, that a stranger and his own father aren’t alive anymore because of him, and…

And maybe, Dean thinks, he really deserves this. In a cosmic sense, anyways. All manners of dark forces have gone into dragging him back from the brink, and maybe this is just the universe’s way of balancing itself out. Just karma finally catching up and dealing with him.

He thinks back, once more, to what he’d said to that reporter. Pretty girl, probably not much younger than him. He’d have taken her home at the drop of a hat, had it been an option at the time, but… well, long-distance has never really been his thing, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask someone with such a bright future to follow him into supermax.

_“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”_

Even with the morbid turn his thoughts have taken, he does his best to cling to those words. He does his best to convince himself that there’s no harm in hoping for a happy ending.

They start to slow down for their fifth stop a few hours into the drive, and he sits up straight, listening intently. His little cage is supposed to be soundproofed, he expects, but he can still hear the guys up front, just a little bit. It’s more the impression of words than anything intelligible, but it’s better than only listening to the sound of his own voice.

When the truck comes to a stop, he waits. Predictably, within a couple minutes, the double-doors at the back are pulled open, and Dean counts no fewer than three firearms being levelled at him. He gives the guards a tired grin as he’s roughly unlocked from the bench he’d been seated on, and doesn’t offer any resistance as he’s pulled out of the truck. “What, time for another bathroom break already? Might be time to get your prostate checked, pal.”

Whatever annoyed response he might get becomes inconsequential as Dean sees where they’ve stopped. It’s a prison, unquestionably, and it isn’t hard to draw the conclusion that this is his final destination, for the time being. No one’s bothered to walk him through what’s going on yet, so instead of worrying about what lies in wait in the building before him, he glances around, searching out the matching armoured vehicle that should be housing his brother.

He doesn’t start to worry until he comes up completely empty.

“Hey, uh, buddy?” Dean asks as if he’s not being prodded to walk forwards. He’s got no intention of going anywhere until he’s got eyes on Sam. “Where’s the rest of the party?”

The smirk his question earns him has Dean’s stomach dropping and he tries very hard not to let it show on his face.

“C’mon, spill,” he insists, trying to cling to his bravado and tame the rising panic. “We’re kind of a package deal, so where’s the other half of the package?”

The guy’s smirk just gets bigger, and Dean can feel it grating on his nerves. Maybe his sanity, too. “By now?” He takes a long look at his watch, humming thoughtfully like he needs to consider how to answer. “He’s being processed over in the James Lynaugh Unit, back towards Odessa.” When he looks at Dean again, he’s just grinning, apparently delighted with being the one to deliver this news. Dean can feel himself shaking, fine tremors travelling through his body and he can’t bring himself to make them stop. “Just about eight hours west o’ here. He’ll be nice an’ comfy over there, don’t worry. He’ll have lots of fun locked in a concrete box for the rest of his life.”

Dean isn’t in control of his breathing anymore as he struggles to process that information. Eight hours away. Concrete box. He does a few half-assed calculations in his mind, trying to figure out where the fuck he’s ended up, and figures he’s somewhere near Houston. Not that it matters, so long as Sam isn’t here.

Sam isn’t _here._

“But you…” The guard laughs again, and Dean- Dean looks at him this time, real close. He’s a big guy, rough around the edges. Looks like he’s having the time of his life telling Dean all this and Dean wonders if he’s a sadist, or if maybe he just takes pleasure in hurting the scum of society. That’s who he’s supposed to be now, right? “You’re gonna have a hell of a time here, freak. By the time they put you down, there won’t be anything left to bury.”

Dean feels his heartbeat, for one long, detached moment. He feels the way it pulses inside his ribcage, desperate and quick and searching. Maybe it’s trying to correct for the loss of its second half.

Dean closes his eyes and he breathes.

“Where the fuck,” he says very softly, the same voice he used on Meg a year ago when she was teasing him about his father’s imminent death, “did you put my brother?”

His answer is laughter and a hard shove in the direction of the prison’s gates. No one says a damn word to him after that, and Dean’s left feeling a little bit like he’s going to throw up.

Sam. Isn’t. Here.

* * *

Ronnie’s been doing this for a damn long time, but it’s been years since he’s been handed a guy like Sam Winchester.

Prison dress codes are about as strict as it gets, and he’s responsible for the fun part of keeping them enforced; he’s the guy in charge of cutting everyone’s hair down to regulation, and he’s not too proud to admit that he gets a kick out of doing it. Some of the guys that come through are about as far from clean-shaven as it gets, and Ronnie gets just a little bit of pleasure out of trimming them down, ‘specially with the guys who are worse than most and seem to take personal offence at the idea of losing whatever hair they’ve grown for themselves.

Sam Winchester, though- Sam Winchester is just a little bit special.

He’s already been hearing whispers from the guards, no small amount of disdain in their voices when they talk about the new guy and his brother. “Twisted fucks,” one of them grunts, shaking his head with obvious disgust. “Should’a seen how they were lookin’ at each other. Couple brother-fuckin’ fags.”

And, hell, that was without even knowing what kind of shit the pair of ‘em did to land here in the first place. By the sound of it, the brother’s been taken out east to death row, but Sam- Sam, they get to keep all to themselves.

Ronnie’s more than looking forward to this, and when the kid’s brought in and sat down in his chair, he doesn’t hide his grin. All soft-haired and still looking a little petulant and lost in the orange jumpsuit, and it excites Ronnie just a little more.

The scissors come first, and he rubs his thumb over the steel grip, licking his lips a little bit.

“Now, Sam,” he says as he leans in close, just talking real soft. There’s no mirror in this room, just a chair and a couple guards and the table where he keeps his shit while he’s not using it, and he takes a certain pleasure in the way Winchester goes all stiff with his words. “You best stay real fuckin’ still while I hack off all this pretty hair o’ yours.” He isn’t gentle when he grips some of the hair in the meat of his fist, and grins all over again when Winchester clenches his jaw. “We don’t take kindly to sick fucks like you ‘round here, and- hell, what can I say? My hand might slip.”

He moves the scissors just enough for Winchester to see them out the corner of his eye, and doesn’t waste any more time before getting to work.

He’s sloppy on purpose, slicing out big chunks of hair in messy sweeps and letting them drift down towards the floor. He doesn’t miss the way Winchester tracks them with his eyes, and just for the hell of it, Ronnie switches to the straight razor, next, just ‘cause it gives him another excuse to yank on the kid’s hair a little bit. Handfuls of chestnut hair end up on the ground, careless and random, and by the time it’s short enough to switch to the buzzer, Winchester is stock-still, white-knuckled in the way he grips at the arms of his chair.

Ronnie grins when he fires up the electric shaver, and he ain’t shy about cutting it real close.

“Not so pretty anymore, are you?” he breathes out, leaning in too close again, and he gets the pleasure of watching the kid flinch. He’s quick and harsh with his strokes with the buzzer, shaving real close to the scalp just ‘cause he can. Always seems like the guys with long hair hurt a little more for it when it’s taken away, and there’s no doubt in his mind that Winchester’s no different, with the way he’s gone so still and silent.

By the time he’s done, the kid might as well be entirely bald; he’s barely got enough hair left to darken his scalp and Ronnie couldn’t be more pleased with the way he’s started trembling, just a little bit. The floor around them is littered with hair, and he doesn’t even bother to brush the scraps off of Winchester’s shoulders before gesturing to one of the guards, who doesn’t hesitate to cross the room and haul Winchester to his feet, uncaring of the shock that seems to be setting in from the wide-eyed look he’s adopted.

“Welcome to Lynaugh, freak,” Ronnie breathes, and he laughs when the kid drops his eyes before being tugged away, probably to be sent to his cell. As he walks, bits and pieces of hair drift off of him, disturbed by the movement, and it just has Ronnie grinning even bigger.

It’s always the simple things, in here. He’s learned well and good to take whatever enjoyment he can get.

* * *

By the time they leave him alone in his cell, Sam feels very small and very empty and very alone. There’s a mirror over his sink that he hasn’t yet worked up the heart to glance at, and it seems that every passing breeze is enough to get him shivering without the weight and warmth of his hair to hide behind.

No one will tell him what they’ve done with his big brother, but Sam knows just enough about criminal law to guess. Death row inmates aren’t housed in normal prisons, and with their luck, Dean’s already been hauled off somewhere else to be dealt with. There’s no telling how far away he is, or how long it will be until they see each other again.

 _If._ It’s become an _if_ now; _if_ they ever see each other again, and he can’t fucking stand it.

Sam lifts a hand in a long-standing nervous habit, trying to push his fingers through his hair, but the first brush of his fingertips against nearly-bare scalp has him jerking his hand away like he’s been burned, and frustrated, angry tears start to build up in his eyes.

It’s not fair. This isn’t fucking _fair._

Neither of them deserve a fate like this, not after everything they’ve done- all the people they’ve helped, all the things they’ve sacrificed, all the _good_ they’ve done- but those sorts of things don’t seem to matter here.

Sam doesn’t think he’s ever felt quite this hopeless in his life, and for the next several hours, he just finds himself staring at the wall opposite his bed. Thinking. Remembering. Eventually, after the numbness properly sets in and the desperation creeps into his heart, _planning._

He isn’t going to let these people keep him from his brother.

* * *

There aren’t a whole lot of wins in Victor’s line of work. Most times, he could end up working a case for months or years with no results to show and a whole lot of paperwork to prove it. It’s a career full of disappointment and failure, and he can probably count the number of people he’s brought to justice on both his hands.

But today- today just happens to be a _damn_ good day.

The decision to drive out to Livingston to give Dean Winchester a visit is an impulsive one, at best, but he figures he’s allowed a little leeway when he’s finally got to see the guy put behind bars. All he needs now is one last look to seal the deal, and then he’ll be able to go home and do his paperwork with a smile on his face and another name to add to his list of success stories.

There aren’t words for the satisfaction it brings him to see Dean in a proper cell where he’s awaiting processing, and Victor doesn’t bother to hide the grin on his face or the smugness in his expression.

“And here I always thought you were too good for prison,” he says to announce his presence, but Dean still doesn’t look up at him. Seems like he’s distracting himself with a loose thread in his jumpsuit, but that suits Victor just fine. “Guess we all have to see our day come due sooner or later, huh?”

He doesn’t get a response, but he isn’t expecting one, either. It’s petty, sure, but he’s just here to gloat. He can’t much help himself, after chasing the Winchesters for so long and seeing all the hurt they’ve caused. He’s got his cake, and damn, if he ain’t gonna eat it. “I’d say that you’re gonna spend the rest of your life behind bars, but I guess you already know that. Sounds like you don’t have a whole lot of life left to look forward to, either way.”

Victor isn’t always sure where he stands on capital punishment, if he’s honest with himself, but Dean- Dean’s a bad guy. Dean is the dictionary definition of “danger to society,” and somehow, being locked up just doesn’t seem to be enough. He’s got to go all the way down, or a whole lot of people won’t be able to sleep at night, Victor among them.

Dean deserves it, he’s sure.

“You know what my favourite part of this is, Dean?” He steps a little closer until he’s got a proper view of Dean, all hunched in on himself. Maybe trying to pretend like Victor isn’t there, as if it’ll help any. “It’s that you are never, _ever_ going to see your brother again. I sure hope you remembered to say goodbye, ‘cause the opportunity has come and gone.”

That’s what finally gets Dean to look at him, and for a moment- just a moment- the look on Dean’s face throws Victor off-balance. He can’t put a name to the emotions there, but anger and grief and a despair so deep that it aches to even look at all stand out starkly. There’s something deeper there, too, some kind of poorly-hidden violence that reminds Victor of why the guy’s been locked up in the first place.

Dean doesn’t say a word. He just… stares. Angry and hurt and empty in a way that Victor doesn’t know what to do with.

He clenches his jaw and steels himself and turns away. This isn’t his problem anymore, and he shouldn’t let it get to him, no matter the tiny bit of guilt trying to niggle at the furthest corner of his conscience.

He deserves this. He deserves this. _They_ deserve this.

“Have fun in supermax,” Victor makes himself say, and he doesn’t linger another moment before heading straight back out, pretending as if Dean’s expression hadn’t just shaken him to the core. He’s left feeling off for the rest of the day, including the entire drive home, and no matter what he does, he can’t shake the feeling of having done something horribly, terribly _wrong_.

But then, sometimes that’s what happens with this job. He’ll get too involved in a case, and finishing it comes with as much disappointment as it does satisfaction. That’s all this is; it’ll be a long while if he ever comes across another criminal as interesting as Dean Winchester, and a part of him is mourning that loss. Dean was a challenge, and Dean was a puzzle that he enjoyed solving, and Dean’s out of his hands now. Dean’s been dealt with.

It doesn’t stop the dreams that night, and Victor doesn’t do a whole lot of sleeping. For once, he’s almost glad for all the paperwork he has to do; better to fill the hours with something productive than to stare at his bedroom ceiling and ask himself, over and over again, whether or not he’s done the right thing.

He can’t afford to have those kinds of doubts.

* * *

Deacon isn’t so much watching the news as he is letting it fill the otherwise consuming silence of his home, late one night, but all it takes is one name to catch and hold his attention, and to have him scrambling for the remote to turn the volume up as he’s pulled from his work and sucked right into whatever story is being spun by the young woman onscreen.

_Winchester._

Of course he remembers John. They were friends, in the day; he’s still got a few pictures from their time serving together, bundled up with his other things from that time period. Remembers John’s wife, from before she was killed. Most of all, though, remembers John’s boys- Dean and little Sammy, the pair of them about as close as brothers can get and following right in their daddy’s footsteps.

He hasn’t seen them a whole lot in recent years, not since they called to let him know about John’s passing, but of all ways to have them appear again in his life, the nightly news has never been on his list of expectations.

When he sees the words “MURDERER SENTENCED TO DEATH” scrolling across the bottom of the screen, he feels like he can’t breathe for a few seconds.

Right after that, though, comes the anger, and he barely waits long enough to figure out where they’re being held before he gets up off his ass and starts making some phone calls.

He knows good and well what the pair of them do for a living, and there’s not a shadow of a doubt in Deacon’s mind that it’s exactly what’s landed them in this situation. John’s boys are good kids, and he can’t imagine either of them doing half the shit they’re being accused of. After everything he went through with John, and after growing as attached to those boys as he is- doesn’t have any kids of his own, but Sam and Dean come damn close on the good days- he isn’t about to sit around and do nothing when he could be helping them.

He might not live in Texas, but he’s got a few connections that might just give him some pull if he asks real nice. Not that it’s really one of his talents, most times, but hell; ain’t like he’s got much other choice.

“Browning,” he says as soon as his first contact answers the phone. He’s never been one for beating around the bush, and he’s already struggling not to growl into the receiver. Gotta play nice. “Tell me about Sam and Dean Winchester.”

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

It’s warm today. The sun’s out, mostly, but there’s enough cloud cover and just a touch of breeze that makes it bearable; it’s hardly anything to celebrate, but over the years, Frankie’s gotten real good at appreciating the little things. Gets him through the day, more or less, even with the ever-present knowledge that he’ll never see the outside of this damn prison again.

Not unless his tunneling plans pan out, anyway. Always seems easier in the movies. He’s already gone through three spoons and he’s barely made a dent.

People know to steer clear of him, mostly. Not a single guy in here who doesn’t want him dead- bunch of ‘em have kids at home, and the others just think he’s the sort of scum that should be scraped right off the bottoms of their boots, preferably with something sharp- but he’s got a scary list of charges, and rumours work wonders. Doesn’t hurt that he ain’t a small guy, either; he can back up every single thing that people say about him, and it gives him a cozy little bubble of solitude that he’s more than happy to embrace. Most guys have it a lot worse.

Sometimes, though, a new guy comes along who needs to be put in his place and taught about the order of the food chain. Lucky for them, Frankie ain’t half shy of demonstrating. Seems like that’s exactly what’s about to happen when some kid starts to approach him from across the yard, and he doesn’t hide his grin, loose and predatory.

Shave a few years of hard edges and sharp corners off his face, and Frankie figures he’d be have been pretty cute.

“You want somethin’?” he asks when the kid gets close enough, and there’s not a damn care in the world in the way he holds himself. When he stands, it’s slow and easy, a casual display of power. He knows he’s got the size and build to back of whatever the hell he wants to back up, and he ain’t afraid to show it, either.

Kid doesn’t seem fazed, and that’s interesting all by itself. Leaves a couple feet between them where he stops and it becomes apparent that he’s not exactly a midget, either. “You Frankie?” he asks, soft and low, and- well, maybe it’s not exactly what Frankie’s expecting to hear, but he doesn’t let that show on his face. “Frankie Russo?”

“Yeah.” He keeps his expression even, uninterested. Something about the kid feels off, but Frankie doesn’t let it shake him. There are all sorts of psychos in this place, and some scrappy newbie ain’t gonna ruin the reputation he’s build for himself here. “What’s it to you, kid?”

There’s something that’s very nearly a smile- a shadow of one, maybe- that grows on the kid’s face. And Frankie has no explanation for the pit that hollows out the bottom of his stomach. “Good,” he murmurs, and in a movement that’s too fast for Frankie to track with his eyes, there’s suddenly no distance between them and a startling pain in his gut, one that quickly intensifies as _something_ \- whatever it is he’s just been stuck with- slices higher up through his belly.

He’s already tasting copper at the back of his tongue, and he doesn’t have the coordination to even shove the kid off him. All he can see in those last few seconds are the kid’s eyes; they’re a chilling kind of empty, and Frankie thinks that maybe he should’ve been more on his guard.

He isn’t looking at a man anymore. He’s looking at a monster.

* * *

All Sam can sense in those blurry moments is the beating of his own heart, hard and fast against every inch of his skin like he’s suddenly too big for his body. Frankie’s losing blood fast and people are starting to notice, nonsense words shouted that echo hollowly past Sam’s mind.

Guards will be coming, soon. He makes no attempt to hide what he’s done, and whatever bit of guilt he ought to feel for killing a human being shrivels and dies in the presence of his own satisfaction; in the knowledge that he’s succeeded in his goal.

He hunts monsters, after all. Frankie was a monster. Sam’s just made the world a slightly better place.

That feels minimal in the face of what’s to come, though, as guards rush him and pull him away from the body. There’s shouting, and they’re rough, and he’s restrained within seconds, but he doesn’t put up a fight. Sam knows enough about the law to get by, and he knows _exactly_ what constitutes a charge of capital murder. He knows where the lines are drawn in the sand, and he knows just how hard it is to reach that threshold while he’s already behind bars.

Lucky for him, there is no shortage of monsters in James Lynaugh, and killing an inmate is more than enough to land him with the death sentence he wants.

Dean’s already out in West Livingston, all on his own and facing execution. Sam figures all he’s done today is make sure that he’s right there by his brother’s side, just the way he’s supposed to be. There was never another way for this to go, and even as he’s forcibly dragged to solitary confinement, as a guard growls at him that they’ll figure out what to do with him once he’s had a few hours to think about what the fuck he’s just done- even as he’s left on his own in a small, concrete box, he can’t help but smile.

Dean’s waiting on the other side of this murder charge, and that’s all the justification that Sam will ever need.

* * *

“He did _what?_ ”

Mara has never seen Dean angry, but on the other side of the plexiglass, through the phone receiver cradled to her ear and the way she watches his shoulders go tense and hard, she can’t help but think this is probably what it looks like.

“He killed another inmate, Dean.” Since starting this case, she’s grown confident that Dean has no intention of hurting her- she’s still sure he didn’t commit the murder that’s landed him here to begin with, awaiting his cell assignment before being transferred to death row- but she’s gentle, anyways. She can’t imagine what this is like to hear, especially remembering how hard Dean had fought to keep his brother out of the whole thing. “In the yard. I guess he found something to use as a shank. He was barely there a couple hours, and… it’s a capital offence. He was already serving a life term, and killing someone while you’re incarcerated…”

She knows it’s the last thing he wants to hear, but it’s still a little startling to hear the creak of plastic in her ear as Dean’s grip tightens on the phone. “He’s gonna fight it, right? Just- just tell ‘em the other guy started it or something, yeah?”

Mara doesn’t have the heart to tell him how many witnesses there were to the murder, so she moves on, trying to keep her voice even. “He doesn’t want to fight it. I’ve already spoken to him. They called me right after it happened, and he…” This is the hard part, and she needs to remind herself to breathe. “He told me he wanted to come here. He said that you were on death row already, and…”

 _Can’t let him go out alone._ Sam’s words sit heavy at the back of her mind and Mara swallows down the lump in her throat. _I won’t let him._

“He’s already in the process of being transferred. It’s just a matter of paperwork now. He pled guilty, no bargaining at all.”

Dean lets loose a few curses that would have a sailor blushing, but Mara just watches, quiet and sad. She can’t put names to the emotions that flicker through his eyes, but- but there’s something there that’s strangely similar to relief.

Maybe Sam had the right idea after all.

“He’ll be here in a couple days.” Mara clears her throat gently, struggling for any part of this that she can try to spin for the better. “If you’d like, I can pass him a message for you. I’ll be seeing him again before he’s moved, probably tomorrow.”

As she’d hoped, it catches Dean’s attention, and his eyes focus back on her from where they’d drifted towards the table. They’re intense for a long few seconds before they suddenly go a little soft, and she barely catches his sigh through the phone before he looks away again.

“Tell him he’s an idiot,” he murmurs, and Mara doesn’t hesitate to take it down on a piece of scrap paper from her folder. The least she can do is ensure that this message makes it to Sam unaltered. “And that if he wanted to see me that badly, he could’ve just called.”

There’s an aching sort of fondness in his voice, and Mara nods once as she finishes the note. She’s hit hard with the realization that she will never be able to understand these boys; under no circumstances can she imagine being able to comprehend the devotion they have for one another. Whether they were real murderers or not when they were accused of such, Sam has taken the life of a very real person now, apparently in an attempt to return to his brother, and some tiny part of her that she can’t entirely ignore thinks that it’s a twisted kind of romantic.

She should be terrified of the Winchesters, and on some level, she is. It’s not the terror that the criminal justice system has attributed to them, though; rather, it’s a terror born of mystery and of danger, of the sort of love that runs deeper than bones and cuts down everything in its way without mercy or hesitation. It’s a terror for which she has no name, and a terror she sees reflected back at her when Dean turns her way again, painted clear as day in emerald-green.

“Take care of him, okay?” he asks very quietly, and Mara doesn’t hesitate to nod. “He’s a genius, but- but he isn’t always good at taking care of himself.”

Saving the brothers from their ever-tangled fates may be beyond her capabilities, but Mara intends to do everything in her power to do exactly as Dean’s just asked: take care of them. It has become abundantly clear to her in the last several weeks that no one else is willing to try.


	2. the middle: part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things get better. Mostly, things get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: I want to let everyone who read the first chapter before today (September 15th, 2017) that I've gone back and made a minor alteration to part of it. The reason I'm mentioning it now is because it kind of lays the groundwork for some of Dean's motivation and general headspace throughout the story, and it's touched upon in this chapter. It's literally only two paragraphs, but it you want to go back and read the part that's changed, it starts at "The reminder only serves to bring", so you can find it easily. 
> 
> Now, as promised, here are the links to the gorgeous art that [soluscheese](soluscheese.tumblr.com) has made for this AU: [one](http://babybrotherdean.tumblr.com/post/150374655763/my-gift-to-you-as-i-promised-hi-res-version), [two](http://babybrotherdean.tumblr.com/post/150464198203/more-art-because-i-couldnt-get-this-image-out-of), [three](http://babybrotherdean.tumblr.com/post/150477856928/just-a-quick-scratchy-thing-of-death-row-sam).
> 
> Many thanks also go to my betas for this chapter: [samanddeaninpanties](samanddeaninpanties.tumblr.com), [lipglosskaz](lipglosskaz.tumblr.com), and [rosesparks23](rosesparks23.tumblr.com).
> 
> I'll stop rambling about stuff now. This one's shorter than the last one, but... things happen. :> Enjoy!

“He asked me to give you this.”

It’s a miracle at this point that Mara’s been allowed to accompany Sam at all. It’s a long drive to Huntsville, and she knows well enough that most of the people involved in his transport would rather he suffer in isolation, but she can be convincing when she wants to be. The guard had snorted at her, muttering something that sounded very much like “your funeral” before begrudgingly letting her join her charge, but she trusts Sam. Despite the fact that he killed a man in cold blood a handful of days ago, she trusts him.

And this is why, she thinks- the way he takes the little piece of paper from her, slow and careful. His fingers are rough when they brush against hers, and it's impossible to miss the amount of strength he has in those hands- he's a fighter, and he could probably break her in half with minimal effort, but even if it weren't for the heavy chains that bind him to his side of the transport vehicle, afforded very minimal movement on the bench where he sits, Mara doesn't think that she would be scared.

He killed that man- a very bad man, she's since learned- to get back to his brother. Even if Mara doesn't quite understand the sort of devotion that could have driven him to such an extreme, she does know that she isn't standing between the two of them. She isn't in danger here.

Sam stays quiet as he unfolds the little note, and he must read it four or five times before the faintest smile graces his lips. "Idiot," he mumbles to himself, fondly, and it's so like Dean's reaction just hours ago that she almost has to do a second take. When he looks up at her, there's something inexplicably lighter in his eyes- like he's just been given the tiniest bit of salvation amidst the hell they've been thrown into.

"Is he okay?"

Mara nods, more than happy to share what little information she has. "He is. He's just starting to settle in, and... well, I can't say it's comfortable, but he's in one piece." She pauses a moment, uncertain. "I... I get the sense that knowing you were on your way made it a little easier on him."

The risk is worth the way Sam smiles, and he looks away from her, eyes distant. "Am I going to be able to see him?"

That part is the bad news, and she shakes her head. "Inmates are housed individually in Polunsky. They don't see each other very often at all, but..." She wants to get rid of the hint of despair that's creeping onto Sam's face, and scrambles for some good news. "I can keep being a go-between for you two, while we work through the appeals. And I'm sure I can pull some strings and get you some time together."

Maybe he catches the touch of desperation in her voice- like a mother trying her hardest to pacify an upset child- because he breathes out, real slow, and looks towards her again. He looks so much older than he did before the trial, between the severe haircut and the heavy sense of acceptance in his eyes. Not a college student anymore as much as a dead man walking. "You don't have to do that. You- you've already done a lot for us, Mara. You don't need to stick your neck out anymore."

But Mara doesn't like that, the thought of giving up. It's her turn to shake her head, sitting up a little straighter and putting on her sternest voice. "It's not a problem. I'm your lawyer, and it's my job to stick my neck out for you. I'm here to help you, Sam, and I'm not going to stop until-"

Until.

Her throat closes up as she remembers the sentences that the boys have been dealt and tries not to think about the way it must show on her face. It threatens to choke her.

"-until I've done everything in my power to help." She clears her throat and has to look away for a moment. The intensity on Sam's face is too much for her. "Just... let me handle this, alright? I'll get you whatever time I can."

The rattle of chains is what makes her look up again, and it's to see Sam's hand, reaching- not that he can get very far, but it's clear what his intention is, so she closes the gap, leaning in so that their fingers can brush together once more. He's quiet for several seconds before speaking, voice softer than before. "Thank you."

Mara nods, and they stay like that for the rest of the drive- fingers loosely curled together, a quiet comfort for them both in the face of everything that's still to come.

Sam doesn't offer back the note, and Mara doesn't ask. If he can have one tiny piece of his brother in the form of somebody else's handwriting, then she doesn't intend to interfere. In the back of her head, though, she's already planning- gathering contacts, thinking of the connections she has, wondering if Sam and Dean have anybody else who will be willing to help her fight this. To fight for them.

This far down the line, with such a grim outlook on the horizon, they're going to need all the help they can get.

* * *

Being processed in the Allan B. Polunsky unit is much the same as what Sam’s already experienced. He’s given a new jumpsuit- white this time, with “DR” stamped across the back- and goes through another rough pat-down. Seems like there aren’t a whole lot of differences until he’s actually escorted to his cell and notices how fucking quiet the whole place is. He counts his steps and traces out a map in his head, wondering with each door they pass about Dean’s whereabouts in this hellhole.

Before long, he’s left on his own once more, in a cell with a thin slit of a window and the absolute bare bones of functionality. The mattress is thin and dirty, there’s a single, threadbare blanket to compensate for the chilly air, and he doesn’t even bother to spare a glance for the toilet.

Dean is in here somewhere, and even though Sam’s got a feeling that his big brother will chew him out as soon as they see each other- that is, if he doesn’t just opt to punch Sam in the face, instead- the only thing that matters is that they _will_ see each other. He’s got faith in Mara, and with the appeals that’ll be going through before long, he knows that sooner or later, he and Dean will end up in the same room together, and that thought is enough to have his heart pounding in his chest.

A small part of him is still lingering on that scene in the courtyard, how it felt to tear that man’s life away without the faintest hesitation or fear of regret. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, only putting the effort in to find somebody evil enough for him to justify murder, but now it’s-

Now it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done, and Sam steels himself against the part of his conscience that wants him to feel bad about it. He locked that up in a box as soon as twelve randomly-selected civilians decided that his big brother deserved to die for something he didn’t do, and now it’s easy to breathe past the would-be guilt.

There’s no room for second thoughts in a place like this. Sam can’t afford to linger on the things he has to do to stay with his brother- not when he hasn’t even finished yet.

For now, he sits on the edge of the bed and tests the way it digs into him when he settles down. Might as well get used to this.

* * *

It takes a lot of patience and too many damn phone calls for Deacon to get down to Texas with a proper idea of what the fuck is going on, and by then, the situation has escalated far out of control- hearing that Sam’s actually killed somebody (with witnesses, even, and actual blood on his hands and everything) leaves him stunned, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to investigate further. He’s got a couple weeks of vacation time stocked up, and he’s got every intention of using it to find a way to get the boys out of this, whatever that might take.

He’s got a list of people he needs to talk to about where to start- their lawyer sits right at the top- but before he gets the chance to track her down, he runs into somebody else, instead.

It’s pure chance. He’s only ever heard of Victor Henriksen since digging into Sam and Dean’s case; he’s some Fed who testified against them and apparently had something to do with them being pinned in the first place. He’s not even one of the people who Deacon had intended to speak with, but he’s on his way in to see the local warden and nearly walks right past the guy, clearly on his way out, before he realizes who it is.

Maybe Deacon’s got some built-up anger about this whole thing, but all he can think about is John’s boys, locked up in this godforsaken place, all for something that they didn’t do. John’s boys, who he’s sure were just doing their jobs and helping people the way they always have.

And this asshole is, to some extent, responsible.

Deacon’s mouth moves quicker than his brain, sometimes, and this is no exception.

“Bet you’re real proud of yourself, huh?”

It stops Henriksen short, and he pauses there for a moment, facing away from Deacon before he turns back around, real slow. Eyebrows raised in mild interest before he’s sizing Deacon up. Calculating. “Somethin’ I can help you with?”

“Henriksen, right?” He’s already in this, so he might as well see it through. Work out some frustration while he’s at it. “You’re the one who stuck the Winchesters in here.”

That gets a little spark of recognition in Henriksen’s eyes, and then they narrow, distrustful. “One among many, sure. But I’m sure you’ve heard what they did. Those two freaks landed themselves here. The rest of us just opened the door to let ‘em in.”

Deacon wants to snap at him, and barely holds back. Finds himself taking a step closer, instead, standing up tall. “They don’t deserve to be here.”

Henriksen snorts at him and waves him off. “Right, and I’m the queen. What’s it matter to you, anyway? You a friend of theirs? I know for damn sure they don’t have any family hanging around.”

_Godfather._ It feels like a million years ago that John and Mary asked him to take on the title, to be a part of their little family and to take care of Dean if anything ever happened, but- but now something’s happened, and neither of them are here to watch out for their boys anymore. It’s got him gritting his teeth and crossing his arms over his chest, wanting nothing more for a split second than to punch the smug look right off Henriksen’s face.

Breathe.

“Something like that.” Deacon lets his voice get cold, because he isn’t going to give this man the satisfaction of getting him worked up. He’s already gotten too much. “You watch your step, Agent. Those boys have more friends than you know.”

He doesn’t let the conversation go on any longer than that, turning his heel and starting back in the direction he was headed to begin with. Doesn’t react to Henriksen calling out “it’s Special Agent, actually,” and files the whole confrontation away to pick apart later.

He’s got work to do. God knows that Sam and Dean could use somebody with influence in their corner right now.

* * *

The phones ring for days after the story about Sam and Dean Winchester goes live, and Renée is left with even more questions than she had to begin with.

She’s spun it a little differently than most local news outlets- Sam and Dean aren’t monsters in her piece. They aren’t killers. She writes them like a question mark, because there are too many mysteries tied up between them for this to be as black-and-white as it’s supposed to be. She covers the trial, her brief talk with Dean, and what little she can scrounge up about their past, and she ends it by reaching out to the world at large- reaching out for more information.

_If you know anything about Sam and Dean Winchester- anything at all- then contact me. I want to hear it. I want to understand._

Usually with these sorts of requests, she’s lucky to end up with a few old friends calling in- old classmates, coworkers, people looking for a bit of a spotlight while they tell her about a subject’s favourite sports team or drinking habits. She never could’ve imagined how different things would be this time around.

It starts with a local call- a couple boys from Dallas who sound like they’re not entirely sure what to make of the Winchesters, but-

_“I mean, they’re kind of the worst, but-“_

_“They’re not bad guys! Don’t listen to Ed. He’s just jealous ‘cause-“_

_“Shut up, I am not!”_

She finds out later that those very same boys have shared her call for information on their blog- something silly about ghost-hunting, but it’s got a hell of a wide reach- and that’s when the floodgates open and she can barely keep up with the influx of people who contact her to speak for Sam and Dean.

There’s a girl from Ohio who’s very tight-lipped about how she met the boys, but insists that they’re good people. A young woman from Nebraska who calls from the hospital, sounding tired and weak, but firm in convincing Renée that they don’t deserve to die. A man from Mississippi, talking about how Sam and Dean saved him from the worst deal he’d ever made in his life.

More. Dozens of people who recognized the name “Winchester,” who feel such an attachment to it that some of them spend hours on the phone, recounting every detail they have to offer about the types of people that Sam and Dean are.

Brave. Loyal. Kind. Gentle. Strong.

_Heroes._

It’s not until one particular young woman calls in- claims to have been Dean’s girlfriend, in the past- that the mystery gets a little deeper.

“Look… I didn’t believe it when he told me either, okay?” She’s a journalist, too, and that’s what’s got Renée so interested in this part. There’s a certain standard of integrity in their line of work, and every other person she’s spoken with has been skittish about the exact circumstances under which they encountered the Winchesters. “Probably one of the biggest mistakes of my life, and- well, just bear with me.”

When Cassie starts telling her a ghost story, Renée very nearly hangs up the phone. Figures she would get a couple prank calls in the midst of the real information, except-

Except.

_Heroes._

“There are things out there.” Cassie’s voice is soft by the time she’s done, and it’s all Renée can do to listen, helpless and transfixed, clutching the receiver to her ear like it’s the only thing holding her to reality. “Things that Dean and his brother… they deal with them. They help people. I don’t know what happened to get them where they are, but…” A shaky breath comes through the phone, and Renée closes her eyes. “I know they aren’t killers. They can’t be.”

Cassie leaves her with contact information in case she wants to know more, and Renée is left feeling like her entire world has just been turned upside-down. She stares at the notebook she’s been working with, full of statements, people swearing on their lives about Sam and Dean’s characters, that they’re good men, and now…

Now, she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. When she started digging, this was the last thing that she expected to find.

She remembers that conversation with Dean, however brief it’d been. Remembers the gravitas in his eyes and the way he’d held himself, like a man who’d seen combat and tragedy and barely lived to tell the tale.

If all of this goes through as intended by the criminal justice system, he won’t for very much longer.

With testaments in hand and a renewed sense of determination, Renée takes a deep breath and starts a new list of things she needs to look into- questions she needs to ask.

There isn’t much she can do from out here, with Sam and Dean locked up in a concrete box somewhere out east, but she can still start to piece this together. She can still write.

She can still tell their story.

* * *

“You’ve gotta give me somethin’ here, Bill.”

In all the years that he’s gone without seeing Deacon Kaylor in person, Bill never figured that the next time would be for such an outrageous request.

Deacon’s a good guy. They grew up together- not real close, but they were friends. Sent each other Christmas cards and the whole lot. Even ended up in the same line of work, more or less, running a couple different prisons, and when Deacon first walked in here, saying he had a favour to ask…

“Goes against every policy we have. I’m real sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”

They’re in his office, not far from the main body of Polunsky, and Deacon looks frustrated. Stressed, really; every muscle in his body is tensed where he sits on the other side of Bill’s desk, and it’s baffling. Drives him to ask another question, ‘cause Deacon’s been real ambiguous about this whole thing so far, and Bill can’t help but be a little curious.

“What interest d’you have in ‘em, anyway? Just a couple more criminals, right?”

He’s surprised by the way Deacon reacts to that, something going hard in his eyes before he visibly calms himself down. Gives Bill more questions than answers, so he presses further. “What’s so important about the Winchesters, huh?”

A long moment of silence, and then Deacon finally speaks, voice even. “The older one’s my godson. Their dad, John- he had a real rough time of things, raising those two, and he’s not around to look out for ‘em anymore. Nobody else is gonna do it, so I figure it’s my turn to step up to the plate.”

That leaves Bill at a bit of a loss, though a few puzzle pieces slowly start to fit together. He hadn’t thought much of the name Winchester at the time, but thinking back on it now- he might not have ever met John, himself, but they had enough mutual friends to have crossed paths, maybe. He takes a few seconds to consider that, reaching up to rub at his mouth, and he just…

He takes one more look at Deacon’s expression and breathes out hard.

“You want me to put them in the same cell?”

There’s a touch of surprise on Deacon’s face, but he nods, firm. “Yeah. I know there’s not a whole lot I can do for them in here, but… those boys have been through a lot together. It’d make things a little easier on ‘em both if they at least had a little company.”

Bill’s been doing this job for too damn long, he thinks, because running the unit that houses death row inmates- it wears on the mind. Most days, he can’t bring himself to walk through, knowing that every man he passes is as good as dead; that they’re caged up like animals, waiting their turn. There’s an oppressive sense of despair that permeates the blocks every time he steps through the gates. Not a whole lot he can do about it, especially when most of them deserve it, but those two…

He breathes out hard, glancing away for a short moment as he thinks it over one more time. What’s he got to lose from being a little soft on a couple kids who won’t be around much longer?

“If they cause any trouble, it’s on you, Deacon.”

There’s no hesitation in the response that comes. “Yeah, I thought that’d be part of the deal.” He’s quiet until Bill looks his way again, and there’s sincerity in his voice when he continues. “Thank you. Really, Bill, this is- it’s a big one. I owe you.”

“You owe me a drink.” Bill stands so he can shake his friend’s hand, already putting together the plan for how to get this going in the back of his head. Two guys in one cell. He can make it happen. “And we need to catch up. You know where to find me.”

As Deacon heads out and Bill starts making arrangements to have one of the brothers moved- the younger one, he figures, hasn’t been settled as long- he can only hope that nothing bad comes out of this whole thing. He wants to believe that Deacon has a good reason for this. He has to.

There aren’t a whole lot of people out there who’d do a favour for a couple of murderers.

* * *

For every hour that Victor lingers around Polunsky- whether for official business or to cater to his own morbid curiosity- it seems that some new, soft-hearted fool sets out to track him down, determined to change his mind about the Winchesters.

He knows Mara Daniels on sight, having met her in passing at the trial. She’s a damn good lawyer- he’ll give her that much, easy- but her apparent attachment to the case after its forgone conclusion is a little bit worrying. More so, he thinks, when he finds himself running into her just outside the main offices at the prison. He wonders, for a moment, whether or not it’s worth engaging.

She makes the decision for him when their eyes meet, and she’s frowning, then. “Special Agent Henriksen. Funny seeing you here.”

“Ms. Daniels.” Victor nods, admittedly curious. She can’t be his biggest fan, after all. “Visiting your clients?”

“Yes. We still need to discuss the appeal process.” Mara nods, and she shifts her weight from foot to foot. Anxious, maybe. Could be that she’s running late. “Is it safe to say that you’ll still be fighting against them?”

It’s not exactly what Victor expects, but it’s fair enough. He shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets. “They’re criminals. I’m a federal agent. It’s my job to fight against them.”

When Mara huffs out a frustrated breath, Victor expects her to just turn and walk away right then- she has somewhere to be, obviously, and there’s no reason for them to be speaking, anyways- but she responds, sounding calmer than he expects her to be. He’s got the distinct impression that she has a personal stake in this case, and when things get personal, they have a tendency to get messy. “They aren’t criminals. They aren’t bad men.”

For a moment, he just watches her, thoughtful. It’s a lawyer’s job to spin a story at exactly the angle that paints their client in the best light, but- but Mara doesn’t look like she’s lying. Doesn’t look like she’s working in doublespeak, either; she seems to genuinely believe what she’s telling him, and- hell, maybe she’s even better than he thought.

He refuses to acknowledge the tiny part of his mind that wants to listen to her.

“Right. Guess the jury didn’t agree.” Victor just shakes his head, turning to continue on his way. “Good luck with the appeals. I hear they can be a pain in the ass.”

Mara doesn’t say anything else as he walks away, but Victor can feel her watching him until he turns the corner. The whole confrontation leaves him a little uneasy, too many third parties piling up and working to convince him that the Winchesters aren’t who they appear to be, but Victor…

Victor isn’t going to let it get to him. Being in this line of work as long as he has makes it a hell of a lot easier to take a step back from those sorts of doubts, and he doesn’t hesitate to push them down and bury them as deep as they’ll go.

His job on this case is done, until it’s time for him to testify again as required. For now, he figures it’s best to move onto other things. Fill out the paperwork. Drink to another pair of criminals being put to justice.

He’ll find some way to take his mind off of this. There has to be a way.

* * *

Things are quiet here, mostly. Unsettlingly so, much of the time- Dean’s left with the sound of his own breathing and heartbeat and not a whole lot else. He’s taken to talking out loud, when he’s up for it, but hearing his own voice echo back at him in the face of the relative silence only seems to make things worse. It also works to highlight how alone he is in this place, and he doesn’t like the way that knowledge seems to be hollowing out something inside of him. He stops talking to himself by the second day, and instead, tries to distract himself in other ways.

It’s a small room. Not much to it, either- it gets dark at night, and lighter during the day, but not enough to lift the oppressive feeling of living in a concrete box. Meals come three times a day, and the only action he ever really hears are the footsteps of passing guards- like clockwork, always the same patterns at the same times of day.

It makes it very easy to pick out the one time that things are different.

It’s three sets of footsteps, now. That catches Dean’s attention right away, because the guards travel in pairs, at most, down these hallways, and if there’s a third person with them, then that means-

“You must have friends in high places, freak,” says one of the guards, and Dean feels his heartbeat speed up as he rushes to the door. Stumbles back a step a moment later when a baton smacks hard against the steel bars, and the guard barks at him. “Back it up! Shouldn’t even be going along with this shit.”

Dean barely processes the words, backing up right until the backs of his knees hit the metal bed frame and stares at the door as it’s unlocked, as somebody else is shoved inside. It closes almost immediately after, and Dean should be listening to the guards, maybe, trying to hear what they’re saying about him, absorb the sound of another human voice while he has the chance, except-

Except that Sam’s all wide-eyed and already stumbling towards him, looking as lost and confused as Dean feels, and it’s easier than breathing to collide with him, arms wrapping tight around the brother he hasn’t seen in- God, it’s only been a week, maybe two, but it feels like a fucking eternity in this place.

“Dean?” As if it could be anybody else. Dean doesn’t pull away, clinging tight and taking these few precious seconds to breathe Sam in. To try to process this, feel the way the little miracle works its way through his brain. “You- you’re here-”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Dean mumbles into Sam’s shoulder, and he’s closing his eyes now. Doesn’t think for a moment that maybe he should pull away and take a better look. Not yet. “You’re the one who- who-”

He can’t bring himself to say it out loud.

Sam’s grip on him tightens and Dean forgets how to breathe all over again. “Wasn’t gonna let you go down alone,” he whispers, and Dean just. “Together ‘til the end of the line, right?”

Dean doesn’t have a damn thing to say to that.

When he pulls back, it’s real slow, because he’s already gotten a glimpse of what’s changed and it hurts his chest to see it up close. Still, he looks, and he reaches up, real slow, until his fingertips can brush over what remains of Sam’s hair. Doesn’t miss the way his brother flinches but doesn’t stop, either, palming over the barely-there buzz, and he just-

He’s _angry._

Irrationally so, maybe, but- but Dean remembers Sam fighting so fucking hard for that stupid hair. Going against Dad, going against _him_ , going against everybody just ‘cause he could and because he liked having something to hide behind, and because it made him look softer and more approachable and-

And now it’s gone. It’s been taken away and Dean hates it and it’s all he can do to pull Sam in close once more, one hand cradling the back of his head, now, and he can’t.

“God, Sammy,” he mumbles, and- and he can’t believe he’s getting choked up over this, but maybe he’s not the only one, because Sam’s hands are trembling where they’re fisted in the back of Dean’s jumpsuit. “What did they do to you?”

He thinks of those few hours that Sam was alone on the other side of the state, in some other prison, and he holds on a little tighter.

Maybe it’s just easier to focus on the little things. Maybe it’s easier to get angry at some shithead cutting his little brother’s hair than it is to try to comprehend how fucked they are right now, and maybe Dean clings to that a little too hard, but right now- right now, he doesn’t give a damn.

Sam’s in his arms again, mostly in one piece, and as long as they’re together to face this thing- well, Dean figures it’ll be a little less quiet. That’s more than enough for now.

Tries to lighten the mood, anyways. Doesn’t loosen his grip when he speaks.

“You want the grand tour?”

The sound Sam makes is nearly a laugh, and Dean smiles into his shoulder.

Yeah. Definitely good enough.

* * *

Joseph thinks they’re funny, at first.

He doesn’t see a whole lot of the inmates, really. They’re confined to their cells, most of the time, and he’s happy to keep it that way- lots of real twisted guys that they house in here, and it’s more than enough just knowing what most of ‘em did to land this kind of sentence in the first place.

Even if he doesn’t see them, though, it doesn’t mean they aren’t familiar. Most of them have been here for years, and will continue to be. He ain’t exactly a lawyer, but it’s no secret around here that it takes years, sometimes decades for a death sentence to go through. Guys will live out huge chunks of their lives in this place, and though they’re far from friendly, for the most part, Joseph gets used to the usual crowd. There’s Tate, down at the end of the block, who raped and killed a few women before the cops caught up with him. Luke, a few doors down, he went after his wife’s kids ‘cause he thought they might not’ve been his. Harry, who Joseph always hears mumbling to himself when he passes the right door, he’s just a good ol’-fashioned serial killer- maybe not a very good one, seeing as how he got caught pretty quick, but he likes to cling to the title, regardless.

Then there are the Winchester boys, and- well, hell. Joseph thinks they’re funny.

It was just the one of ‘em, at first, and he was real angry, most of the time. Spent his first couple days demanding information about his brother, as if he was in the sort of position to demand _anything_ , and nobody paid him much mind besides to laugh at him every now and again. Kid didn’t like that much, and he quieted down after a little while. Lo and behold, his brother showed up in house not a week later, freshly a killer and looking the part to boot, and-

Well. Maybe that wasn’t as funny, seeing the cold, empty look in Sam’s eyes, but Joseph tries damn hard to bury that somewhere he won’t have to think about it anymore.

He figures that’s pretty much it until he and one of the other guys is charged with escorting Sam to Dean’s cell, and that’s the weirdest damned thing that’s ever happened around this place, but it’s an order that comes straight from the top, and he knows good and well not to question it. They don’t tell Sam where he’s going, really, but he can’t quite help himself mumbling about friends in high places, and when they open the door and Dean’s inside, he’s not…

He’s not sure what to make of these two.

Joseph doesn’t linger long, but it’s long _enough_ and he sees the way that they look at each other. The way they move, desperate, to hold onto each other, and it’s- it’s unsettling, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the pity it breeds in his chest, ‘cause it’s one thing to miss your brother once you’re behind bars, but the kind of naked desperation he sees in Dean’s face once the guy gets his eyes on Sam, it’s…

It’s foreign, and it makes Joseph feel like he’s intruding on something, just by watching them.

It drives him out of the cell quicker than he’d intended, and the door’s closed behind him soon after that, and he still can’t shake the feeling, even as he continues on with his usual day, doing his rounds and checking on the other guys. It stays with him when he goes home that night, and he dreams of them, too- a pair of brothers who need each other more than any pair of brothers ever should. It scares him.

Later, when things get worse, he can’t help the sense that the Winchesters never should’ve been separated to begin with.

* * *

Even with the connections he has, it’s damn hard for Deacon to get a proper sit-down with the boys.

There’s a whole mess of paperwork to fill out, and he’s even asked to present documentation of his familial relationship with the boys. The little piece of paper declaring him as Dean’s godfather is tucked away with photos from the baptism, and he gets caught up in just staring at them for a while. At John and Mary, first, and then at Dean, tiny as he was. Looks even smaller in the pictures where Deacon’s holding him, and that hurts somewhere inside, remembering the little boys that are behind bars now. Remembering the promise he made that day to take care of them in their parents’ steed, and knowing damn well that there’s nothing he can do for them anymore. Not when they’re in a place like this.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try.

They’re brought out together, and that much, at least, is a relief. Though he hadn’t seen much of them in their adult years, it’s hard to forget how close the pair of them were as kids, and getting them in the same room- well, he’ll pull every string within his reach to make them a little more comfortable.

“Deacon,” Dean breathes out as soon as he’s close enough, and the way he visibly relaxes- it’s comforting, in some small way. Even as the boys are sat down rather harshly in their chairs and promptly handcuffed to the table, it’s good to see them with his own eyes. They don’t look too much worse for wear, though the white jumpsuits send chills down his spine. The thought of seeing “DR” stamped on their backs when they turn to leave is enough to make him uneasy. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Deacon manages a half-smile, because he’s not here to cry about their situation. He’s here to give them some hope that they’ll be able to fix it. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to be, kid. You needed somebody to get down here and watch your backs, so- well, here I am.”

“You’re the one who put us together, aren’t you?” It’s Sam, now, and Deacon can’t even bring himself to be surprised- the kid’s always been smart as a whip, in different ways than his brother. “You- you made them do that?”

And there’s no reason not to tell the truth, so Deacon just nods. Doesn’t miss the way Dean’s eyes widen, just a fraction, and he’s glad all over again to have jumped through the hoops to put them together. “Yeah. I thought it might make things… well, a little less shitty.”

“Thank you.” And there’s more sincerity in Sam’s voice than Deacon knows what to do with, so he clears his throat a little bit and looks away. “I… thank you. Really.”

“So what’re we looking at?” Dean’s the one to speak up, then, maybe sensing Deacon’s discomfort or else feeling some of his own. “Do we have a plan?”

It’s the part that Deacon’s been dreading, and he looks away for a moment. Lingers on the guards that stand by the door. It’s a relatively small room, meant for an inmate and their visitor and not a whole lot more. He figures he might start feeling claustrophobic if he spent too much time in this place, then just feels guilty, knowing that the cell the boys are sharing is probably even smaller. “Well… I’ve been told your lawyer is already starting the appeal process. She seems like a nice girl.”

Dean goes a little stiff in the shoulders, but Sam’s already talking, full speed ahead. “You think that’ll help us? They have to review the case again already, and we can keep pushing it until- until we figure something out, right? Even if we’re just stalling until we can get it together, that’s… that’s something. There’s not really much of a hurry to get us through the system, otherwise, so it’s…”

He trails off and already looks like he’s caught up in his own thoughts, so Deacon speaks up again, softer. “The appeals should take some time, yeah. In the meantime, I’ll be trying to figure out how to sort all this out, okay?” He shoots another look towards the guards, wary of saying too much, and looks back towards Sam and Dean. “We’re gonna get you two out of here. There’s gotta be a way.”

Their time is up soon after that, and the boys are escorted out of the room. Deacon leaves them with a smile on his face and another promise that he’ll figure out how to fix this, and it leaves a horrible feeling in his chest, tight and overwhelming.

He’s never been very good at lying to the people he loves.

* * *

The walk back to the cell is quiet, because it’s the only way they’re allowed to be under the watchful eyes of their guards. Dean knows that his brother is looking at him, sneaking glances whenever he can get away with it, but Dean- Dean keeps his eyes firmly on the ground. He can hear the gears in Sam’s head whirring away, probably still busy working out how to make their appeals succeed or at least buy them more time, and the thought just…

He doesn’t want to have to think about it.

They’re prodded back into their cell unceremoniously, and Dean doesn’t bother listening to whatever the guards mutter in their direction before the door slams shut behind them. It’s only been a couple weeks in here, but he knows how this goes. Can’t let things start getting to him this early, because…

…because, well. Might as well hold onto the sanity he’s still got.

“Dean,” Sam’s saying, and Dean barely looks at him. He knows what his brother wants to talk about, and it’s still hurting his chest to even think about, and maybe Sam will quit if Dean pretends not to hear him. If he just keeps his eyes down and heads over to the tiny bed they share and acts like he’s got literally anything else to do but listen. “Hey. Dean.”

It doesn’t work very long, and he gives up quickly. Looks towards Sam for a moment before turning away again, letting his eyes shift to the cell’s walls. Figures maybe he should start scratching his own marks into them, so at least that way, he’ll be leaving something behind. “Yeah?”

“You think we should try to meet with Mara again? Talk about the whole- y’know.”

And- yeah. This is what Dean’s been dreading.

No more putting it off now.

He breathes out slow and he’s still staring at the wall when he speaks again. Thinks it’ll be a little bit easier to talk to decades-old scratch marks in the cement than his brother. “I, uh- I’ve been thinking.” Hesitates another short moment, and when Sam doesn’t say anything, he continues. “I don’t think I want to. Y’know. Appeal.”

Silence. Dean makes the mistake of looking up when he thinks that maybe Sam didn’t hear him, but- but Sam heard him, alright. Sam’s looking at him like he’s got three heads, or like maybe he just kicked a puppy or something, because Sam- Sam doesn’t look happy.

Dean braces himself.

“What do you mean?” Sam demands, and he’s moving, and he’s up in Dean’s space pretty quick. Not like they’ve got much room in this place to begin with, and there’s a lot of Sam to make it feel a whole lot smaller. “You can’t just- of course we’re gonna appeal. We’re gonna buy ourselves some time until Deacon and- and I don’t know, Bobby- until they can get us out of here. We’ve dealt with worse than this, right?”

Except the thing is that they kind of… haven’t.

“Sam.” Dean shifts on his feet and it’s hard to meet his brother’s eyes when they’re so intense, stormy. Angry. “You gotta- you gotta realize where we are, here.” Gestures around them even though Sam isn’t looking away from his face, and- and Dean figures he’s scrambling a bit, now, trying to explain himself, but. “It ain’t exactly a local prison in- in Bumfuck, Nowhere, and we ain’t charged with stealing a fucking candy bar. This is- this is supermax, Sam. This is fucking- it’s capital murder. It’s _death row._ ”

“You didn’t kill anyone, Dean!” And Sam’s doing that thing where he starts to raise his voice, and- and God, Dean hates this. He hates being on the receiving end of this. “You didn’t do any of that shit they’re blaming you for, and you shouldn’t be here, and we’re going to get out-”

“How?” Dean tries real hard not to point at the elephant in the room. He might not have killed anybody- not by his own choice, anyways, but the bodies of his dad and some poor sap he never even met weigh too heavy on his mind to ignore- but that guy on the receiving end of Sam’s desperation back a few hours east is as dead as it gets. “How are we supposed to get out of this, Sam, huh? You really think they’re gonna let guys like us walk away?”

“People get let off of this stuff all the time,” Sam insists, and that sounds like a bit of a stretch, but- “Wrongful convictions, they happen- they happen _constantly_. Even on death row. We just have to wait it out until somebody figures out how to get us out of here, and-”

And Dean’s out of words, so he shoves, instead. Can’t help it when the frustration and anger and fear is starting to bubble over, and pushes hard against Sam’s chest to try to buy himself some room to breathe around it. “You know what? You go ahead and fucking- appeal. You jump through the hoops and spend fifteen fucking years in this place tryin’ to convince the judge that the other guy threw the first punch or whatever, but- but I’m not gonna sit here, rotting in this stupid cell just to try to delay the inevitable.” And he should stop there- he _should_ \- but everything’s bubbling over now, and the rest of those thoughts come out before he can stop himself. “I shouldn’t even be _alive_. I should’ve been fucking dead twice now, Sam, and I’m done cheating my way out of it.”

And then Sam’s just. Staring. Stares hard for a long few seconds, like he’s trying to make sense of Dean in some way, and Dean wants to turn away from it, but he’s pinned in place. Can’t back down now, not when his heart’s still racing, too on-edge to settle, and not when Sam’s stepping towards him again, ignoring the low sound of maybe-protest that Dean makes when he gets too close, and it’s.

It’s Dean’s back, pressed against the cold concrete, and it’s Sam’s hands fisted in the front of his stupid white jumpsuit. It’s the way their breath mingles when Sam’s face is so close to his, and Dean tries to hold it in and ignore the twisting in his chest, the heat between their bodies, but he just-

He _can’t._

“You’re not leaving without me.” And Sam’s barely whispering, now, but it’s not like he needs to talk any louder. Dean tastes the words as they’re spoken, figures he could steal them right out of Sam’s mouth if he tried hard enough. “I won’t let you.”

They don’t talk any more after that, but Dean’s left with the taste of his little brother on his lips, tingling where they would’ve kissed if the moment had lasted any longer. If Sam hadn’t pulled away at the last second, giving him a long, lingering look before finally backing off.

The talk of appeals doesn’t come up again between them, and Dean can’t help but be a tiny bit thankful. As much as his mind and heart rebel against the thought of Sam dying- as much as he still hates those last words from their father, how hard he’s been fighting against letting them come true- he can’t ignore the relief that comes with the thought of his little brother staying by his side, right until the end.

He doesn’t much like the thought of going out alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deacon being Dean's godfather is a headcanon I've grown very attached to. 
> 
> But anyways, besides that- I originally marked this as having three chapters in total, but I realized pretty much immediately once I started writing the next part that the middle section has about 50k worth of content in it, and that it'd probably be better to split it up. The five-chapter total might change, too, but it's a more realistic estimate.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought. <33

**Author's Note:**

> This part has been more or less finished for a while now. I just went through and did some editing yesterday, so... figured I might as well put it out there, right? Let me know what you all think so far, and thanks for reading <33


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